Yet each man kills the thing he loves, By each let this be heard, Some do it with a bitter look, Some with a flattering word, The coward does it with a kiss, The brave man with a sword! Some kill their love when they are young, And some when they are old; Some strangle with the hands of Lust, Some with the hands of Gold: The kindest use a knife, because The dead so soon grow cold. Some love too little, some too long, Some sell, and others buy; Some do the deed with many tears, And some without a sigh: For each man kills the thing he loves, Yet each man does not die.

The ancient historians gave us delightful fiction in the form of fact; the modern novelist presents us with dull facts under the guise of fiction.

I was working on the proof of one of my poems all the morning, and took out a comma. In the afternoon I put it back again.

As long as a woman can look ten years younger than her own daughter, she is perfectly satisfied.

They flaunt their conjugal felicity in one's face, as if it were the most fascinating of sins.

It is in the brain that the poppy is red, that the apple is odorous, that the skylark sings.

With an evening coat and a white tie, anybody, even a stockbroker, can gain a reputation for being civilized