Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass Their pleasures in a long immortal dream.

You are always new. The last of your kisses was even the sweetest; the last smile the brightest; the last movement the gracefullest.

Talking of Pleasure, this moment I was writing with one hand, and with the other holding to my Mouth a Nectarine - how good how fine. It went down all pulpy, slushy, oozy, all its delicious embonpoint melted down my throat like a large, beatified Strawberry.

My mind has been the most discontented and restless one that ever was put into a body too small for it.

The excellence of every Art is its intensity.

Whatever the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth -whether it existed before or not

I almost wish we were butterflies and liv'd but three summer days - three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.