How far away the stars seem, and how far is our first kiss, and ah, how old my heart.

I am content to live it all again And yet again, if it be life to pitch Into the frog-spawn of a blind man's ditch.

Heaven blazing into the head: Tragedy wrought to its uttermost. Though Hamlet rambles and Lear rages And all the drop-scenes drop at once Upon a hundred thousand stages It cannot grow by an inch or an ounce.

There is no deformity But saves us from a dream.

An intellectual hatred is the worst.

I wonder anybody does anything at Oxford but dream and remember, the place is so beautiful. One almost expects the people to sing instead of speaking. It is all like an opera.

Some burn damp faggots, others may consume The entire combustible world in one small room.