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

I believe when I am in the mood that all nature is full of people whom we cannot see, and that some of these are ugly or grotesque, and some wicked or foolish, but very many beautiful beyond any one we have ever seen, and that these are not far away... and the simple of all times and the wise men of ancient times have seen them and even spoken to them.

Poet and sculptor, do the work, / Nor let the modish painter shirk

Joy is of the will which labours, which overcomes obstacles, which knows triumph.

An intellectual hatred is the worst, So let her think opinions are accursed. Have I not seen the loveliest woman born Out of the mouth of Plenty's horn, Because of her opinionated mind Barter that horn and every good By quiet natures understood For an old bellows full of angry wind?

Man can embody truth but he cannot know it.

Only God, my dear, Could love you for yourself alone And not your yellow hair.