Hardly any one is able to see what is before him, just as it is in itself. He comes expecting one thing, he finds another thing, he sees through the veil of his preconception, he criticizes before he has apprehended, he condemns without allowing his instinct the chance of asserting itself.

Sweet, can I sing you the song of your kisses? How soft is this one, how subtle this is, How fluttering swift as a bird's kiss that is, As a bird that taps at a leafy lattice; How this one clings and how that uncloses From bud to flower in the way of roses.

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.

Night, a more perfect day.

The mystic too full of God to speak intelligibly to the world.

I had my dreams of Venice, but nothing that I had dreamed was as impossible as what I found.

The making of one's life into art is, after all, the first duty and privilege of every man.