I wonder anybody does anything at Oxford but dream and remember

I gave what other women gave That stepped out of their clothes But when this soul, its body off Naked to naked goes, He it has found shall find therein What none other knows.

Man has created death.

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.

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

Literature is always personal, always one man's vision of the world, one man's experience, and it can only be popular when men are ready to welcome the visions of others.

How can I, that girl standing there, My attention fix On Roman or on Russian Or on Spanish politics?