My father was an angry and impatient teacher and flung the reading book at my head.

Things thought too long can be no longer thought, For beauty dies of beauty, worth of worth, And ancient lineaments are blotted out.

For Death who takes what man would keep, Leaves what man would lose.

There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings.

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.

The world being illusive, one must be deluded in some way if one is to triumph in it.

The creations of a great writer are little more than the moods and passions of his own heart, given surnames and Christian names, and sent to walk the earth.