People who lean on logic and philosophy and rational exposition end by starving the best part of the mind.

Consume my heart away, sick with desire And fastened to a dying animal It knows not what it is, and gather me Into the artifice of eternity.

BELOVED, gaze in thine own heart, The holy tree is growing there.

A line will take us hours maybe; / Yet if it does not seem a moment's thought, / Our stitching and unstitching has been naught... Better go down upon your marrow-bones / And scrub a kitchen pavement, or break stones... For to articulate sweet sounds together / Is to work harder than all these, and yet / Be thought an idler by the noisy set.

The true poet is all the time a visionary and whether with friends or not, as much alone as a man on his death bed.

The pain others give passes away in their later kindness, but that of our own blunders, especially when they hurt our vanity, never passes away

Style, personality - deliberately adopted and therefore a mask - is the only escape from the hot-faced bargainers and money-changers.