No man has ever lived that had enough of children's gratitude or woman's love.

My temptation is quiet. Here at life's end Neither loose imagination Nor the mill of the mind Consuming its rag and bone, Can make the truth known.

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

I have no question: It is enough, I know what fixed the station Of star and cloud. And knowing all, I cry. . . .

THOUGH you are in your shining days, Voices among the crowd And new friends busy with your praise, Be not unkind or proud, But think about old friends the most: Time's bitter flood will rise, Your beauty perish and be lost For all eyes but these eyes.

Supreme art is a traditional statement of certain heroic and religious truth, passed on from age to age, modified by individual genius, but never abandoned.

The mystical life is at the centre of all that I do and all that I think and all that I write.