First love, with its frantic haughty imagination, swings its object clear of the everyday, over the rut of living, making him all looks, silences, gestures, attitudes, a burning phrase with no context.
Elizabeth BowenTo the sun Rome owes its underlying glow, and its air called golden - to me, more the yellow of white wine; like wine it raises agreeability to poetry.
Elizabeth BowenHave not all poetic truths been already stated? The essence of a poetic truth is that no statement of it can be final.
Elizabeth Bowen