How can the arts overcome the slow dying of men's hearts that we call progress ?

When we have blamed the wind we can blame love.

All the great masters have understood that there cannot be great art without the little limited life of the fable, which is always better the simpler it is, and the rich, far-wandering, many-imaged life of the half-seen world beyond it

True love is a discipline in which each divines the secret self of the other and refuses to believe in the mere daily self.

My temptation is quiet. Here at life's end Neither loose imagination Nor the mill of the mind Consuming its rag and bone, Can make the truth known.

Things said or done long years ago Or things I did not do or say But thought that I might say or do, Weigh me down, and not a day But something is recalled, My conscience or my vanity appalled.

We are happy when for everything inside us there is a corresponding something outside us.