I scarcely remember counting upon happiness—I look not for it if it be not in the present hour—nothing startles me beyond the moment. The setting sun will always set me to rights, or if a sparrow come before my Window I take part in its existence and pick about the gravel.
I never can feel certain of any truth, but from a clear perception of its beauty.
Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time.
Everything that reminds me of her goes through me like a spear.
That which is creative must create itself.
I could be martyred for my religion. Love is my religion and I could die for that. I could die for you.