The pale and quiet moon Makes her calm forehead bare, And the last fragments of the storm, Like shattered rigging from a fight at sea, Silent and few, are drifting over me.

There is no bore we dread being left alone with so much as our own minds.

The stiff rails were softened to swan's-down, and still fluttered down the snow.

He gives only the worthless gold who gives from a sense of duty.

Ah, in this world, where every guiding thread Ends suddenly in the one sure centre, death, The visionary hand of Might-have-been Alone can fill Desire's cup to the brim!

Fashion being the art of those who must purchase notice at some cheaper rate than that of being beautiful, loves to do rash and extravagant things. She must be forever new, or she becomes insipid.

Whatever you may be sure of, be sure of this, that you are dreadfully like other people.