Love is a game-yes? I think it is a drowning.

On the neck of the young man sparkles no gem so gracious as enterprise. Youth condemns; maturity condones.

A black cat among roses, phlox, lilac-misted under a quarter moon, the sweet smells of heliotrope and night-scented stock. The garden is very still. It is dazed with moonlight, contented with perfume.

Rapture's self is three parts sorrow.

Sexual love is the most stupendous fact of the universe, and the most magical mystery our poor blind senses know.

If what we worship fail us, still the fire burns on, and it is much to have believed.

Happiness, to some, elation; Is, to others, mere stagnation.