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.

People are responsible for their opinions, but Providence is responsible for their morals.

Nor law, nor duty bade me fight, Nor public men, nor cheering crowds, A lonely impulse of delight Drove to this tumult in the clouds.

When two close kindred meet What better than call a dance?.

Englishmen are babes in philosophy and so prefer faction-fighting to the labour of its unfamiliar thought.

Dream, dream, for this is also sooth.

Hope and Memory have one daughter and her name is Art, and she has built her dwelling far from the desperate field where men hang out their garments upon forked boughs to be banners of battle. O beloved daughter of Hope and Memory, be with me for a while.