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!

My soul is like this cloudy, flaming opal ring.

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.

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.

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.