Four seasons fill the measure of the year; there are four seasons in the minds of men.

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.

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

O aching time! O moments big as years!

Praise or blame has but a momentary effect on the man whose love of beauty in the abstract makes him a severe critic on his own works.

The excellence of every art is its intensity, capable of making all disagreeables evaporate, from their being in close relationship with beauty and truth.

Are there not thousands in the world who love their fellows even to the death, who feel the giant agony of the world, and more, like slaves to poor humanity, labor for mortal good?