And when thou art weary I'll find thee a bed, Of mosses and flowers to pillow thy head.

That which is creative must create itself.

There is nothing stable in the world; uproar's your only music.

I could be martyred for my religion. Love is my religion and I could die for that. I could die for you.

If something is not beautiful, it is probably not true.

Give me books, fruit, French wine and fine weather and a little music out of doors, played by someone I do not know. I admire lolling on a lawn by a water-lilied pond to eat white currants and see goldfish: and go to the fair in the evening if I'm good. There is not hope for that -one is sure to get into some mess before evening.

You speak of Lord Byron and me; there is this great difference between us. He describes what he sees I describe what I imagine. Mine is the hardest task.