What we ask of him is, that he should find out for us more than we…

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.

The gray-green stretch of sandy grass, Indefinitely desolate; A sea of lead, a sky of slate; Already autumn in the air, alas! One stark monotony of stone, The long hotel, acutely white,

Here in a little lonely room I am master of earth and sea, And the planets come to me.

My soul is like this cloudy, flaming opal ring.

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 hours Without the comradeship of things.