The imagination loses vitality as it ceases to adhere to what is real.

The summer night is like a perfection of thought.

I still feel the need of some imperishable bliss.

A pear should come to the table popped with juice, Ripened in warmth and served in warmth. On terms Like these, autumn beguiles the fatalist.

Nothing could be more inappropriate to American literature than its English source since the Americans are not British in sensibility.

It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice.

How full of trifles everything is! It is only one's thoughts that fill a room with something more than furniture.