If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not worth the winning!

See yonder little cloud, that, borne aloft So tenderly by the wind, floats fast away Over the snowy peaks!

Some must follow and some command, through all are made oclay.

White swan of cities slumbering in thy nest . . . White phantom city, whose untrodden streets Are rivers, and whose pavements are the shifting Shadows of the palaces and strips of sky.

How beautiful the silent hour, when morning and evening thus sit together, hand in hand, beneath the starless sky of midnight!

I am never indifferent, and never pretend to be, to what people say or think of my books. They are my children, and I like to have them liked.

We are all architects of faith, ever living in these walls of time.