Happiness: We rarely feel it. I would buy it, beg it, steal it, Pay in coins of dripping blood For this one transcendent good.

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

Don’t ask a writer what he’s working on. It’s like asking someone with cancer on the progress of his disease.

Underneath my stiffened gown Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin, A basin in the midst of hedges grown So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding, But she guesses he is near, And the sliding of the water Seems the stroking of a dear Hand upon her.

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

How hard, how desperately hard, is the way of the experimenter in art!

Happiness, to some, is elation; to others it is mere stagnation.