A realist, in Venice, would become a romantic by mere faithfulness to what he saw before him.
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.
The English mist is always at work like a subtle painter, and London is a vast canvas prepared for the mist to work on.
To have loved, to have been made happy thus, / What better fate has life in store for us?
Without charm there can be no fine literature, as there can be no perfect flower without fragrance.
Life is a dream in the night, a fear among fears, A naked runner lost in a storm of spears.
God, like all highest things, Hides light in shade, And in the night his visitings To sleep and dreams are clearliest made.
The dead are happy, having no desire. I rise and fall, and rise and fall again, Something is in me, famishing for bread, Baffled and unappeasable as fire.
Leave words to them whom words, not doings, move.
But we have been taught to see before our eyes have found out a way of seeing for themselves.
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.
I had my dreams of Venice, but nothing that I had dreamed was as impossible as what I found.
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.
There is not a dream which may not come true, if we have the energy which makes, or chooses, our own fate.... It is only the dreams of those light sleepers who dream faintly that do not come true.
Sweet, can I sing you the song of your kisses? How soft is this one, how subtle this is, How fluttering swift as a bird's kiss that is, As a bird that taps at a leafy lattice; How this one clings and how that uncloses From bud to flower in the way of roses.
It is in their eyes that their magic resides.
Here in a little lonely room I am master of earth and sea, And the planets come to me.
Night, a more perfect day.
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.
My soul is like this cloudy, flaming opal ring.
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.
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