Life is a quest and love a quarrel

But you, you foolish girl, you have gone home to a leaky castle across the sea to lie awake in linen smelling of lavender, and hear the nightingale, and long for me.

If ever I said in grief or pride, I'd tired of honest things, I lied.

Man has never been the same since God died.

Beauty in all things-no, we cannot hope for that; but some place set apart for it.

I have loved badly, loved the great Too soon, withdrawn my words too late; And eaten in an echoing hall Alone and from a chipped plate The words that I withdrew too late.

Life has no friend.