I pray-for fashion's word is out And prayer comes round again- That I may seem, though I die old, A foolish, passionate man.

I have known more men destroyed by the desire to have wife and child and to keep them in comfort than I have seen destroyed by drink and harlots.

I bring you with reverent hands The books of my numberless dreams.

We have lit upon the gentle, sensitive mind And lost the old nonchalance of the hand; Whether we have chosen chisel, pen or brush, We are but critics, or but half create.

The mystical life is the centre of all that I do and all that I think and all that I write. . . . I have always considered myself a voice of what I believe to be a greater renaissance - the revolt of the soul against the intellect.

When two close kindred meet What better than call a dance?.

It seems to me that true love is a discipline.