We all must try to be good.
For awhile after you quit Keats all other poetry seems to be only whistling or humming.
I love her and that's the beginning and end of everything.
Sometimes it is harder to deprive oneself of a pain than of a pleasure.
He wanted to appear suddenly to her in novel and heroic colors. He wanted to stir her from that casualness she showed toward everything except herself.
Well, let it pass, he thought; April is over, April is over. There are all kinds of love in the world, but never the same love twice. --The Sensible Thing