I am the family face; flesh perishes, I live on, projecting trait and trace through time to times anon, and leaping from place to place over oblivion.

Of course poets have morals and manners of their own, and custom is no argument with them.

The beauty or ugliness of a character lay not only in its achievements, but in its aims and impulses; its true history lay, not among things done, but among things willed.

But no one came. Because no one ever does.

The offhand decision of some commonplace mind high in office at a critical moment influences the course of events for a hundred years.

I shall do one thing in this life-one thing certain-this is, love you, and long of you, and keep wanting you till I die.

Do you know that I have undergone three quarters of this labour entirely for the sake of the fourth quarter?