The making of one’s life into art is, after all, the first duty and privilege of every man.

Sweet, can I sing you the song of your kisses? How soft is this one, how subtle this is, How fluttering swift as a bird’s kiss that is, As a bird that taps at a leafy lattice; How this one clings and how that uncloses From bud to flower in the way of roses.

A realist, in Venice, would become a romantic by mere faithfulness to what he saw before him.

The clamours of spring are the same old delicate noises, The earth renews its magical youth at a breath.

As perfume doth remain In the folds where it hath lain, So the thought of you, remaining Deeply folded in my brain, Will not leave me: all things leave me: You remain.

The English mist is always at work like a subtle painter, and London is a vast canvas prepared for the mist to work on.

To have loved, to have been made happy thus, / What better fate has life in store for us?

Without charm there can be no fine literature, as there can be no perfect flower without fragrance.

Life is a dream in the night, a fear among fears, A naked runner lost in a storm of spears.

God, like all highest things, Hides light in shade, And in the night his visitings To sleep and dreams are clearliest made.