“Souls of poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? Have ye tippled drink more fine Than mine host’s Canary wine?”

I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart’s affections, and the truth of imagination.

You are always new. The last of your kisses was even the sweetest; the last smile the brightest; the last movement the gracefullest.

Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced.

My imagination is a monastery and I am its monk.

Wherein lies happiness? In that which becks Our ready minds to fellowship divine, A fellowship with essence; till we shine, Full alchemiz’d, and free of space. Behold The clear religion of heaven!

You are always new to me.

I would sooner fail than not be among the greatest.

I love you the more in that I believe you had liked me for my own sake and for nothing else.

Parting they seemed to tread upon the air, Twin roses by the zephyr blown apart Only to meet again more close.

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter.

Don’t be discouraged by a failure. It can be a positive experience.

Of love, that fairest joys give most unrest.

Even bees, the little almsmen of spring bowers, know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.

Failure is, in a sense, the highway to success.

We read fine things but never feel them to the full until we have gone the same steps as the author.

O aching time! O moments big as years!