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.

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

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

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

Night, a more perfect day.

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!

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.