We have lit upon the gentle, sensitive mind And lost the old nonchalance of the hand; Whether we have chosen chisel, pen or brush, We are but critics, or but half create.

Although our love is waning, let us stand by the lone border of the lake once more, together in that hour of gentleness. When the poor tired child, passion, falls asleep.

I have known more men destroyed by the desire to have wife and child and to keep them in comfort than I have seen destroyed by drink and harlots.

But was there ever dog that praised his fleas?

The wind blows out of the gates of the day, The wind blows over the lonely of heart, And the lonely of heart is withered away.

I'm looking for the face I had, before the world was made.

Poet and sculptor, do the work, / Nor let the modish painter shirk