The wind blows out of the gates of the day, The wind blows over the lonely of heart, And the lonely of heart is withered away.

Man can embody truth but he cannot know it.

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half light, I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

O heart! O heart! if she'd but turn her head You'd know the folly of being comforted.

An intellectual hatred is the worst.

O what fine thought we had because we thought that the worst rogues and rascals had died out.

All the wild-witches, those most notable ladies For all their broom-sticks and their tears, Their angry tears, are gone.