A man should have the fine point of his soul taken off to become fit for this world.

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

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun.

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.

A moment's thought is passion's passing knell.

When it is moving on luxurious wings, The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings.

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.