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

Night, a more perfect day.

Criticism is properly the rod of divination: a hazel switch for the discovery of buried treasure, not a birch twig for the castigation of offenders.

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!

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.

But we have been taught to see before our eyes have found out a way of seeing for themselves.

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.