The Garden En robe de parade. - Samain Like a skein of loose silk blown against a wall She walks by the railing of a path in Kensington Gardens, And she is dying piece-meal of a sort of emotional anaemia. And round about there is a rabble Of the filthy, sturdy, unkillable infants of the very poor. They shall inherit the earth. In her is the end of breeding. Her boredom is exquisite and excessive. She would like some one to speak to her, And is almost afraid that I will commit that indiscretion.

A great age of literature is perhaps always a great age of translations.

A little light, like a rushlight / to lead back to splendour.

If a nation's literature declines, the nation atrophies and decays.

Use no word that under stress of emotion you could not actually say.

It is more than likely that the brain itself is, in origin and development, only a sort of great clot of genital fluid held in suspense or reserved. This hypothesis would explain the enormous content of the brain as a maker or presenter of images.

Gloom and solemnity are entirely out of place in even the most rigorous study of an art originally intended to make glad the heart of man.