It seems to me that true love is a discipline.

The only business of the head in the world is to bow a ceaseless obeisance to the heart.

But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

We had fed the heart on fantasies, The heart's grown brutal from the fare, More substance in our enmities Than in our love

An aged man is but a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick

What the world's million lips are searching for, must be substantial somewhere.

Now that my ladder's gone, I must lie down where all my ladders start, In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.