“I wish I was either in your arms full of faith, or that a Thunder bolt would strike me.”

Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity.

When I behold, upon the night’s starr’d face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance.

Every mental pursuit takes its reality and worth from the ardour of the pursuer.

A man should have the fine point of his soul taken off to become fit for this world.

I am convinced more and more day by day that fine writing is next to fine doing, the top thing in the world.

Land and sea, weakness and decline are great separators, but death is the great divorcer for ever.

Life is but a day; A fragile dewdrop on its perilous way From a tree’s summit.

How does the poet speak to men with power, but by being still more a man than they.

My love is selfish. I cannot breathe without you.

You are always new, the last of your kisses was ever the sweetest.

Whatever the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth -whether it existed before or not.

Give me books, French wine, fruit, fine weather and a little music played out of doors by somebody I do not know.

The feel of not to feel it, When there is none to heal it Nor numbed sense to steel it.

And how they kist each other’s tremulous eyes.

Pleasure is oft a visitant; but pain Clings cruelly to us.

Beauty is truth, truth beauty.

Outside the street’s on fire in a real death waltz between what’s flesh and what’s fantasy.

I don’t have any favourite lyrics. Honestly, all of them I love ’em to death – it’s the same with songs. I don’t have just one favourite lyric, I love them all.

No one asks how to motivate a baby. A baby naturally explores everything it can get at, unless restraining forces have already been at work. And this tendency doesn’t die out, it’s wiped out.

The bible teaches that women brought sin and death into the world. I don’t believe that any man ever talked with god. The bible was written by man out of his love of domination.

Truth is often eclipsed but never extinguished.

The music of an unhappy people, of the children of disappointment; they tell of death and suffering and unvoiced longing toward a truer world, of misty wanderings and hidden ways.

Life is like an endless book. Each day is a new page and only death can bring the end to this little book of yours.

Drink and dance and laugh and lie, Love, the reeling midnight through, For tomorrow we shall die! (But, alas, we never do.)