Only that which does not teach, which does not cry out, which does not condescend, which does not explain, is irresistible.

Ecstasy is from the contemplation of things vaster than the individual and imperfectly seen perhaps, by all those that still live.

When you are old and gray and full of sleep, and nodding by the fire, take down this book and slowly read, and dream of the soft look your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep.

But Love has pitched his mansion in the place of excrement. For nothing can be sole or whole that has not been rent.

Nothing that we love overmuch Is ponderable to our touch.

What can be explained is not poetry.

Time drops in decay Like a candle burnt out. And the mountains and woods Have their day, have their day; But, kindly old rout Of the fire-born moods, You pass not away.