You are the music while the music lasts.

People exercise an unconscious selection in being influenced.

Ash on an old man's sleeve / Is all the ash the burnt roses leave, / Dust in the air suspended / Marks the place where a story ended.

In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing

In a mind charged with an eager purpose and an unfinished vindictiveness, there is no room for new feelings.

The bad poet is usually unconscious where he ought to be conscious, and conscious where he ought to be unconscious.

Where is the knowledge we have lost in information?