I wonder anybody does anything at Oxford but dream and remember, the place is so beautiful. One almost expects the people to sing instead of speaking. It is all like an opera.

Only that which does not teach, which does not cry out, which does not condescend, which does not explain, is irresistible.

Where there is nothing, there is God.

The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity.

I would have touched it like a child But knew my finger could but have touched Cold stone and water. I grew wild, Even accusing heaven because It had set down among its laws: Nothing that we love over-much Is ponderable to our touch.

What can be explained is not poetry.

When I clamber to the heights of sleep, Or when I grow excited with wine, suddenly I meet your face.