Most of the beauties of travel are due to the strange hours we keep to see them

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

A profusion of pink roses being ragged in the rain speaks to me of all gentleness and its enduring.

But time in only another liar, so go along the wall a little further: if blackberries prove bitter there'll be mushrooms, fairy-ring mushrooms in the grass, sweetest of all fungi.

And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks of her dress in a strange bedroom-- feels the autumn dropping its silk and linen leaves about her ankles. The tawdry veined body emerges twisted upon itself like a winter wind.

[History is] a tyranny over the souls of the dead - and so the imagination of the living.

A new music is a new mind.