I made no more protests. What was the use of struggling against fate

The butterfly, a cabbage-white, (His honest idiocy of flight) Will never now, it is too late, Master the art of flying straight.

What we now call "finance" is, I hold, an intellectual perversion of what began as warm human love.

She tells her love while half asleep, In the dark hours, With half-words whispered low: As Earth stirs in her winter sleep And puts out grass and flowers Despite the snow, Despite the falling snow.

In love as in sport, the amateur status must be strictly maintained.

Marriage, like money, is still with us; and, like money, progressively devalued.

The award of a pure gold medal for poetry would flatter the recipient unduly: no poem ever attains such carat purity.