But Love has pitched his mansion in the place of excrement. For nothing can be sole or whole that has not been rent.

Players and painted stage took all my love, And not those things that they were emblems of.

The winds that awakened the stars Are blowing through my blood.

The fascination of what's difficult Has dried the sap out of my veins, and rent Spontaneous joy and natural content Out of my heart.

An intellectual hate is the worst.

You know what the Englishman's idea of compromise is? He says, Some people say there is a God. Some people say there is no God. The truth probably lies somewhere between these two statements.

The only enemy of innocence and beauty is time.