One is certain of nothing but the truth of one's own emotions.

One is certain of nothing but the truth of one's own emotions.

The English countryside, its growth and its destruction, is a genuine and tragic theme.

I only wish the poets would say this too: love is of the body; not the body, but of the the body. Ah! the misery that would be saved if we confessed that! Ah! for a little directness to liberate the soul!

Hardship is vanishing, but so is style, and the two are more closely connected than the present generation supposes.

Those who prepared for all the emergencies of life beforehand may equip themselves at the expense of joy.

Italy and London are the only places where I don't feel to exist on sufferance.