But how entirely I live in my imagination; how completely depend upon spurts of thought, coming as I walk, as I sit; things churning up in my mind and so making a perpetual pageant, which is to be my happiness.

Rhoda comes now, having slipped in while we were not looking. She must have made a tortuous course, taking cover now behind a waiter, now behind some ornamental pillar, so as to put off as long as possible the shock of recognition, so as to be secure for one more moment to rock her petals in her basin. We wake her. We torture her. She dreads us, she despises us, yet she comes cringing to our sides because for al our cruelty there is always some name, some face which sheds a radiance, which lights up her pavements and makes it possible for her to replenish her dreams.

And again she felt alone in the presence of her old antagonist, life.

I am all the time thinking about poetry and fiction and you.

There is something about the present which we would not exchange, though we were offered a choice of all past ages to live in.

Women have served all these centuries as looking glasses possessing the power of reflecting the figure of man at twice its natural size.

How far we are going to read a poet when we can read about a poet is a problem to lay before biographers.