Those comfortably padded lunatic asylums which are known, euphemistically, as the stately homes of England.

That great Cathedral space which was childhood.

I have made up thousands of stories; I have filled innumerable notebooks with phrases to be used when I have found the true story, the one story to which all these phrases refer. But I have never yet found the story. And I begin to ask, Are there stories?

A woman knows very well that, though a wit sends her his poems, praises her judgment, solicits her criticism, and drinks her tea, this by no means signifies that he respects her opinions, admires her understanding, or will refuse, though the rapier is denied him, to run through the body with his pen.

Her life-that was the only chance she had-the short season between two silences.

Just in case you ever foolishly forget; I'm never not thinking of you

Yet, it is true, poetry is delicious; the best prose is that which is most full of poetry.