Too late for fruit, too soon for flowers..

As soon as they're out of your sight, you are out of their mind..

For beauty with sorrow Is a burden hard to be borne: The evening light on the foam, and the swans, there; That music, remote, forlorn..

When I lie where shades of darkness Shall no more assail mine eyes..

Once a man strays out of the common herd, he's more likely to meet wolves in the thickets than angels..

Look thy last on all things lovely, Every hour.

Slowly, silently, now the moon Walks the night in her silver shoon..

After all, what is every man? A horde of ghosts - like a Chinese nest of boxes - oaks that were acorns that were oaks. Death lies behind us, not in f….

Oh, no man knows Through what wild centuries Roves back the rose..

An hour's terror is better than a lifetime of timidity..

What is the world, O soldiers? It is I, I, this incessant snow, This northern sky..

Lear, Macbeth. Mercutio – they live on their own as it were. The newspapers are full of them, if we were only the Shakespeares to see it. Have you ev….

Very old are the woods; And the buds that break Out of the brier's boughs, When March winds wake, So old with their beauty are-- Oh, no man knows Thr….

Now that cleverness was the fashion most people were clever - even perfect fools; and cleverness after all was often only a bore: all head and no body.

He got out of bed and peeped through the blinds. To the east and opposite to him gardens and an apple-orchard lay, and there in strange liquid tranqu….

It was a pity thoughts always ran the easiest way, like water in old ditches..

When music sounds, gone is the earth I know, And all her lovelier things even lovelier grow; Her flowers in vision flame, her forest trees Lift burde….

All day long the door of the sub-conscious remains just ajar; we slip through to the other side, and return again, as easily and secretly as a cat..

And some win peace who spend The skill of words to sweeten despair Of finding consolation where Life has but one dark end..

What a haunting, inescapable riddle life was..

Without imagination of the one kind or of the other, mortal existence is indeed a dreary and prosaic business... Illumined by the imagination, our li….