Here in a little lonely room

My soul is like this cloudy, flaming opal ring.

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.

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,

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!

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.

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.