A pity beyond all telling is hid in the heart of love.

I have found nothing half so good / As my long-planned half solitude, / Where I can sit up half the night / With some friend that has the wit.

Is it not certain that the Creator yawns in earthquake and thunder and other popular displays, but toils in rounding the delicate spiral of a shell? -Yeats, The Trembling of the Veil

It seems that I must bid the Muse to pack, / Choose Plato and Plotinus for a friend / Until imagination, ear and eye, / Can be content with argument and deal / In abstract things; or be derided by / A sort of battered kettle at the heel.

I wonder anybody does anything at Oxford but dream and remember

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 wretched dragon is perplexed.