A realist, in Venice, would become a romantic by mere faithfulness to what he saw before him.

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

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.

My soul is like this cloudy, flaming opal ring.

It is in their eyes that their magic resides.

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.