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.

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.

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

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!

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.