Love is a flaming heart, and its flames aspire / Till they cloud the soul in the smoke of a windy fire..

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

It is in their eyes that their magic resides..

Vaguely conscious of that great suspense in which we live, we find our escape from its sterile, annihilating reality in many dreams, in religion, pas….

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

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

Hardly any one is able to see what is before him, just as it is in itself. He comes expecting one thing, he finds another thing, he sees through the….

I heard the sighing of the reedsAt noontide and at evening,And some old dream I had forgottenI seemed to be remembering..

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

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

There is not a dream which may not come true, if we have the energy which makes, or chooses, our own fate.... It is only the dreams of those light sl….

There are certain natures to whom work is nothing, the act of work everything..

Criticism is properly the rod of divination: a hazel switch for the discovery of buried treasure, not a birch twig for the castigation of offenders..

All art is a form of artifice.For in art there can be no prejudices..

I know the woman has no soul, I know The woman has no possibilities Of soul or mind or heart, but merely is The masterpiece of flesh: well, be it so.….

What we ask of him is, that he should find out for us more than we can find out for ourselves... He must have the passion of a lover..

And I would have, now love is over, An end to all, an end: I cannot, having been your lover Stoop to become your friend!.

I have loved colours, and not flowers;Their motion, not the swallows wings;And wasted more than half my hoursWithout the comradeship of things..

My soul is like this cloudy, flaming opal ring..

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

My life is like a music-hall,Where, in the impotence of rage,Chained by enchantment to my stall,I see myself upon the stageDance to amuse a music-hal….