Her name sprang to my lips at moments in strange prayers and praises which I myself did not understand. My eyes were often full of tears (I could not tell why) and at times a flood from my heart seemed to pour itself out into my bosom. I thought little of the future. I did not know whether I would ever speak to her or not or, if I spoke to her, how I could tell her of my confused adoration.

To learn one must be humble. But life is the great teacher.

White wine is like electricity. Red wine looks and tastes like a liquified beefsteak.

Why is it that words like these seem dull and cold? Is it because there is no word tender enough to be your name?

The philosophic mind inclines always to an elaborate life--the life of Goethe or of Leonardo da Vinci; but the life of the poet isintense--the life of Blake or of Dante--taking into its centre the life that surrounds it and flinging it abroad again amid planetary music.

Your battles inspired me - not the obvious material battles but those that were fought and won behind your forehead.

if it is thus, I ask emphatically whence comes this thusness.