I am convinced more and more day by day that fine writing is next to fine doing, the top thing in the world.

O for the gentleness of old Romance, the simple planning of a minstrel's song!

I have loved the principle of beauty in all things.

What shocks the virtuous philosopher, delights the chameleon poet.

Of love, that fairest joys give most unrest.

Ask yourself my love whether you are not very cruel to have so entrammelled me, so destroyed my freedom. Will you confess this in the Letter you must write immediately, and do all you can to console me in it — make it rich as a draught of poppies to intoxicate me —write the softest words and kiss them that I may at least touch my lips where yours have been. For myself I know not how to express my devotion to so fair a form: I want a brighter word than bright, a fairer word than fair.

Or thou might'st better listen to the wind, Whose language is to thee a barren noise, Though it blows legend-laden through the trees.