Love is a universal migraine. A bright stain on the vision, Blotting out reason.

This seems to me a philosophical question, and therefore irrelevant, question. A poet's destiny is to love.

Love without hope, as when the young bird-catcher Swept off his tall hat to the Squire's own daughter, So let the imprisoned larks escape and fly Singing about her head, as she rode by.

Myths are seldom simple, and never irresponsible.

For words of rapture groping, they"Never such love," swore "ever before was!"

I believe that every English poet should read the English classics, master the rules of grammar before he attempts to bend or break them, travel abroad, experience the horrors of sordid passion, and - if he is lucky enough - know the love of an honest woman.

About this business of being a gentleman: I paid so heavily for the fourteen years of my gentleman's education that I feel entitled, now and then, to get some sort of return.