My soul is like this cloudy, flaming opal ring.

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.

Night, a more perfect day.

My soul is like this cloudy, flaming opal ring.

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.

A place has almost the shyness of a person, with strangers; and its secret is not to be surprised by a too direct interrogation.

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.