I wonder anybody does anything at Oxford but dream and remember, the…

Words are always getting conventionalized to some secondary meaning. It is one of the works of poetry to take the truants in custody and bring them back to their right senses. Poets are the policemen of language; they are always arresting …

You are still wrecked among heathen dreams.

This melancholy London. I sometimes imagine that the souls of the lost are compelled to walk through its streets perpetually. One feels them passing like a whiff of air.

The only business of the head in the world is to bow a ceaseless obeisance to the heart.

I hate journalists. There is nothing in them but tittering jeering emptiness. They have all made what Dante calls the Great Refusal, — that is they have ceased to be self-centered, have given up their individuality.... The shallowest …

The years like great black oxen tread the world, And God the herdsman goads them on behind, And I am broken by their passing feet.