Mount and begone. The world awaits you..

Yet not with all of me am I in love. Too much of my own quietness is with me..

To live at all is miracle enough..

There is a kind of laughter that sickens the soul. Laughter when it is out of control: when it screams and stamps its feet, and sets the bells jangli….

In the presence of real tragedy you feel neither pain nor joy nor hatred, only a sense of enormous space and time suspended, the great doors open to ….

The sun sank with a sob and darkness waded in from all horizons so that the sky contracted and there was no more light left in the world, when, at th….

There are times when the air that floats between mortals becomes, in its stillness and silence, as cruel as the edge of a scythe..

Why break the heart that never beat from love?.

Lingering is so very lonely when one lingers all alone..

Life is too fleet for onomatopoeia..

What is Time... That you speak of it so subserviently? Are we to be the slaves of the sun, that second-hand, overrated knob of gilt, or of his sister….

His was not the hatred that arises suddenly like a storm and as suddenly abates. It was, once the initial shock of anger and pain was over, a calcula….

There is a brotherhood among the kindly- Closer and defter and more integral- Than any of aisle or coven- For love rang out before the chapel bell.

Each day I live in a glass room unless I break it with the thrusting of my senses and pass through the splintered walls to the great landscape..

The crumbling castle, looming among the mists, exhaled the season, and every cold stone breathed it out. The tortured trees by the dark lake burned a….

Countless candles dribbled with hot wax, and their flames, like little flags, fluttered in the unchartered currents of air. Thousands of lamps, naked….

As I see it, life is an effort to grip before they slip through one's fingers and slide into oblivion, the startling, the ghastly or the blindingly e….

We are all imprisoned by the dictionary. We choose out of that vast, paper-walled prison our convicts, the little black printed words, when in truth ….

This tower, patched unevenly with black ivy, arose like a mutilated finger from among the fists of knuckled masonry and pointed blasphemously at heav….

He saw in happiness the seeds of independence, and in independence the seeds of revolt..

For death is life. It is only living that is lifeless..