Time can but make her beauty over again.

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade. And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings.

Everything that's lovely is But a brief, dreamy kind of delight.

Books are but waste paper unless we spend in action the wisdom we get from thought - asleep. When we are weary of the living, we may repair to the dead, who have nothing of peevishness, pride, or design in their conversation.

I think all happiness depends on the energy to assume the mask of some other life, on a re-birth as something not one's self.

The labor of the alchemists, who were called artist in their day, is a befitting comparison for a deliberate change of style.

Who mocks at music mocks at love.