A realist, in Venice, would become a romantic by mere faithfulness to what he saw before him.
I had my dreams of Venice, but nothing that I had dreamed was as impossible as what I found.
The clamours of spring are the same old delicate noises, The earth renews its magical youth at a breath.
Vaguely conscious of that great suspense in which we live, we find our escape from its sterile, annihilating reality in many dreams, in religion, passion, art.
As perfume doth remain In the folds where it hath lain, So the thought of you, remaining Deeply folded in my brain, Will not leave me: all things leave me: You remain.
Without charm there can be no fine literature, as there can be no perfect flower without fragrance.
To have loved, to have been made happy thus, / What better fate has life in store for us?
The English mist is always at work like a subtle painter, and London is a vast canvas prepared for the mist to work on.
Life is a dream in the night, a fear among fears, A naked runner lost in a storm of spears.
Here in a little lonely room I am master of earth and sea, And the planets come to me.
He knew that the whole mystery of beauty can never be comprehended by the crowd, and that while clearness is a virtue of style, perfect explicitness is not a necessary virtue.
Art begins when a man wishes to immortalize the most vivid moment he has ever lived.
Love is a flaming heart, and its flames aspire / Till they cloud the soul in the smoke of a windy fire.
There are certain natures to whom work is nothing, the act of work everything.
The mystic too full of God to speak intelligibly to the world.
A place has almost a shyness of a person with strangers; its secret is not to be surprised by too direct interrogation.
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!
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.
Night, a more perfect day.
I have loved colours, and not flowers;Their motion, not the swallows wings;And wasted more than half my hoursWithout the comradeship of things.
The making of one's life into art is, after all, the first duty and privilege of every man.
I heard the sighing of the reedsAt noontide and at evening,And some old dream I had forgottenI seemed to be remembering.
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.
My life is like a music-hall,Where, in the impotence of rage,Chained by enchantment to my stall,I see myself upon the stageDance to amuse a music-hall.
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