He knew that the whole mystery of beauty can never be comprehended by the crowd, and that while clearness is a virtue of style, perfect explicitness is not a necessary virtue.

As perfume doth remain In the folds where it hath lain, So the thought of you, remaining Deeply folded in my brain, Will not leave me: all things leave me: You remain.

Night, a more perfect day.

What we ask of him is, that he should find out for us more than we can find out for ourselves... He must have the passion of a lover.

Vaguely conscious of that great suspense in which we live, we find our escape from its sterile, annihilating reality in many dreams, in religion, passion, art.

And I would have, now love is over, An end to all, an end: I cannot, having been your lover Stoop to become your friend!

Here in a little lonely room I am master of earth and sea, And the planets come to me.