“Where the nightingale doth sing Not a senseless, tranced thing, But divine melodious truth.”

Let us open our leaves like a flower, and be passive and receptive.

That queen of secrecy, the violet.

Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight; With wings of gentle flush o’er delicate white, And taper fingers catching at all things, To bind them all about with tiny rings.

One of the most mysterious of semi-speculations is, one would suppose, that of one Mind’s imagining into another

I will imagine you Venus tonight and pray, pray, pray to your star like a Heathen.

Every fresh experience points out some form of error which we shall afterwards carefully avoid.

Tis the witching hour of night, Orbed is the moon and bright. And the stars they glisten, glisten, Seeming with bright eyes to listen- For what listen they?

Love is my religion – I could die for it.

I will clamber through the clouds and exist.

You cannot conceive how I ache to be with you: how I would die for one hour.

I think we may class the lawyer in the natural history of monsters.

The excellence of every Art is its intensity.

The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!

As the Swiss inscription says: “Speech is silvern, Silence is golden;” or, as I might rather express it, Speech is of Time, Silence is of Eternity.

I don’t need the stars in the night I found my treasure All I need is you by my side so shine forever.

And when thou art weary I’ll find thee a bed, Of mosses and flowers to pillow thy head.

Hold fast to dreams, for if dreams die, life is a broken-winged bird that cannot fly.

[As a young man ] I came to the conclusion that the church was just a bunch of fascists that supported Franco. I stopped going on Sunday mornings and watched the birds with my father instead.

If you lose an opportunity you will be like one who lets the bird fly away; you will never get it back.

Never look for birds of this year in the nests of the last.

You can put wings on a pig, but you don’t make it an eagle.

It was terribly beautiful to Tess today, for since her eyes last fell upon it she had learnt that the serpent hisses where the sweet birds sing.

You can cage the songbird, but you can’t make her sing. And you can trap the free bird, but you’ll have to clip her wings.

Blessed be the Lord for the beauty of summer and spring, for the air, the water, the verdure, and the song of birds.