Even pain pricks to livelier living.

Can you see through the night, woman, that you stare so upon it? Man, what sparks do your eyes follow in the smouldering darkness?

Art is the desire of a man to express himself, to record the reactions of his personality to the world he lives in.

I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against the want of you; of squeezing it into little inkdrops, And posting it.

Rapture's self is three parts sorrow.

Time! Joyless emblem of the greed of millions, robber of the best which earth can give.

How loud clocks can tick when a room is empty, and one is alone!