Only love can keep anyone alive.
The sky was pure opal now.
A passion for pleasure is the secret of remaining young.
Artists reproduce themselves or each other, with wearisome iteration. But criticism is always moving on, and the critic is always developing.
Can they feel, I wonder, those white silent people we call the dead?
It is sweet to dance to violins When love and life are fair: To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes Is delicate and rare: But it is not sweet with nimble feet To dance upon the air!