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

Style, personality - deliberately adopted and therefore a mask - is the only escape from the hot-faced bargainers and money-changers.

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.

When such as I cast out remorse; So great a sweetness flows into the breast; We must laugh and we must sing, We are blest by everything, Everything we look upon is blessed.

Much did I rage when young, Being by the world oppressed, But now with flattering tongue It speeds the parting guest.

I know that I shall meet my fate somewhere among the clouds above; those that I fight I do not hate, those that I guard I do not love.

I heard the old, old, men say 'all that's beautiful drifts away, like the waters.'