It's a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries.

Once in a century a man may be ruined or made insufferable by praise. But surely once in a minute something generous dies for want of it.

And may we find when ended is the page, Death but a tavern on our pilgrimage.

Poetry is a mixture of common sense, which not all have, with an uncommon sense, which very few have.

Love is a flame to set the will on fire

In this life he laughs longest who laughs last.

Life, a beauty chased by tragic laughter.