I believe... that our memories are part of one great memory, the memory of Nature herself.

An intellectual hate is the worst.

We poets would die of loneliness but for women, and we choose our men friends that we may have somebody to talk about women with. Letter to Olivia Shakespeare, 1936

Life is a long preparation for something that never happens.

The Land of Faery, Where nobody gets old and godly and grave, Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise, Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue.

The pain others give passes away in their later kindness, but that of our own blunders, especially when they hurt our vanity, never passes away

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?