Words are always getting conventionalized to some secondary meaning.…

I wonder anybody does anything at Oxford but dream and remember, the place is so beautiful. One almost expects the people to sing instead of speaking. It is all — the colleges I mean — like an opera.

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.