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.

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.

My soul is like this cloudy, flaming opal ring.

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

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!

Art begins when a man wishes to immortalize the most vivid moment he has ever lived.

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.