Hell take curtains! Go with some show of inconvenience; sit openly - to the weather as to grief. Or do you think you can shut your grief in?

The only realism in art is of the imagination.

Love is unworldly and nothing comes of it but love.

Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Your knees are a southern breeze.

What power has love but forgiveness? In other words by its intervention what has been done can be undone. What good is it otherwise?

It is almost impossible to state what one in fact believes, because it is almost impossible to hold a belief and to define it at the same time.

To refine, to clarify, to intensify that eternal moment in which we alone live there is but a single force the imagination.