Time drops in decay Like a candle burnt out. And the mountains and woods Have their day, have their day; But, kindly old rout Of the fire-born moods, You pass not away.

True love is a discipline in which each divines the secret self of the other and refuses to believe in the mere daily self.

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.

For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

We can only begin to live when we conceive life as Tragedy.

From dream to dream and rhyme to rhyme I have ranged / In rambling talk with an image of air: / Vague memories, nothing but memories.

Hearts are not had as a gift, But hearts are earned.