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

It is in their eyes that their magic resides.

My soul is like this cloudy, flaming opal ring.

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

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.

Sweet, can I sing you the song of your kisses? How soft is this one, how subtle this is, How fluttering swift as a bird's kiss that is, As a bird that taps at a leafy lattice; How this one clings and how that uncloses From bud to flower in the way of roses.