I have read somewhere that in the Emperor's palace at Byzantium was a tree made of gold and silver, and artificial birds that sang.

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

The years like great black oxen tread the world, and God, the herdsman goads them on behind, and I am broken by their passing feet.

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

Never give all the heart, for love Will hardly seem worth thinking of To passionate women if it seem Certain, and they never dream That it fades out from kiss to kiss; For everything that's lovely is But a brief, dreamy, kind delight. O Never give the heart outright, For they, for all smooth lips can say, Have given their hearts up to the play. And who could play it well enough If deaf and dumb and blind with love? He that made this knows all the cost, For he gave all his heart and lost.

In dreams begins responsibility.

All the wild-witches, those most notable ladies For all their broom-sticks and their tears, Their angry tears, are gone.