I had my dreams of Venice, but nothing that I had dreamed was as impossible as what I found.

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.

What we ask of him is, that he should find out for us more than we can find out for ourselves... He must have the passion of a lover.

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.

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!

The mystic too full of God to speak intelligibly to the world.

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.