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

I am content to live it all again And yet again, if it be life to pitch Into the frog-spawn of a blind man's ditch.

Test every work of intellect or faith and everything that your own hands have wrought.

Let us go forth, the tellers of tales, and seize whatever prey the heart long for, and have no fear. Everything exists, everything is true, and the earth is only a little dust under our feet.

There is only one romance the Soul's.

I hate journalists. There is nothing in them but tittering jeering emptiness. They have all made what Dante calls the Great Refusal. The shallowest people on the ridge of the earth.

This melancholy London - I sometimes imagine that the souls of the lost are compelled to walk through its streets perpetually. One feels them passing like a whiff of air.