[History is] that terrible mill in which sawdust rejoins sawdust.

The trouble about most Englishwomen is that they will dress as if they had been a mouse in a previous incarnation, or hope to be one in the next.

All great poetry is dipped in the dyes of the heart.

When we think of cruelty, we must try to remember the stupidity, the envy, the frustration from which it has arisen.

Poetry ennobles the heart and the eyes, and unveils the meaning of all things upon which the heart and the eyes dwell. It discovers the secret rays of the universe, and restores to us forgotten paradises.

Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire: it is the time for home. It is no season in which to wander the world as if one were the wind blowing aimlessly along the streets without a place to rest, without food, and without time meaning anything to one, just as time means nothing to the wind.

Art is magic, not logic. This craze for the logical spirit in irrational shape is part of the present harmful mania for uniformity.