There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings.

Somewhere beyond the curtain Of distorting days Lives that lonely thing That shone before these eyes Targeted, trod like Spring.

Much did I rage when young, Being by the world oppressed, But now with flattering tongue It speeds the parting guest.

No art can conquer the people alone-the people are conquered by an ideal of life upheld by authority.

What shall I do for pretty girls Now my old bawd is dead?

I heard the old, old, men say 'all that's beautiful drifts away, like the waters.'

Florence Farr once said to me, If we could say to ourselves, with sincerity, 'this passing moment is as good as any I shall ever know,' we could die upon the instant and be united with God.