Innocence of heart and violence of feeling are necessary in any kind of superior achievement: The arts cannot exist without them.

The poem is always the last resort. In it the poet makes a world in little, and finds peace, even though, under complete focused emotion, the evocation be far more bitter than reality, or far more lovely.

But is there any reason to believe that a woman's spiritual fibre is less sturdy than a man's? Is it not possible for a woman to come to terms with herself if not with the world; to withdraw more and more, as time goes on, her own personality from her productions; to stop childish fears of death and eschew charming rebellions against facts?

At midnight tears Run into your ears.

... politics are nothing but sand and gravel: it is art and life that feed us until we die. Everything else is ambition, hysteria or hatred.

O remember In your narrowing dark hours That more things move Than blood in the heart.

The art of one period cannot be approached through the attitudes (emotional or intellectual) of another.