The mystical life is the centre of all that I do and all that I think and all that I write. . . . I have always considered myself a voice of what I believe to be a greater renaissance - the revolt of the soul against the intellect.

What do we know but that we face one another in this place?

I have drunk ale from the Country of the Young / And weep because I know all things now.

Time can but make her beauty over again.

Homer is my example and his unchristened heart.

It seems to me that love, if it is fine, is essentially a discipline.

How can we know the dancer from the dance?