Though I am old with wandering Through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone, And kiss her lips and take her hands; And walk among long dappled grass, And pluck till time and times are done The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun.

It is so many years before one can believe enough in what one feels even to know what the feeling is

What were all the world's alarms To mighty Paris when he found Sleep upon a golden bed That first dawn in Helen's arms?

Love is created and preserved by intellectual analysis, for we love only that which is unique, and it belongs to contemplation, not to action, for we would not change that which we love.

Words alone are certain good.

Does the imagination dwell the most Upon a woman won or a woman lost?

Nothing but stillness can remain when hearts are full Of their own sweetness, bodies of their loveliness.