“The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing, The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying, And the Year On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead, Is lying.”

I arise from dreams of thee In the first sweet sleep of night, when the winds are breathing low, and the stars are shining bright.

The pleasure that is in sorrow is sweeter than the pleasure of pleasure itself.

Life may change, but it may fly not; Hope may vanish, but can die not; Truth be veiled, but still it burneth; Love repulsed, – but it returneth!

Rise like Lions after slumber In unvanquishable number- Shake your chains to earth like dew Which in sleep had fallen on you Ye are many-they are few.

The howl of self-interest is loud but the heart is black which throbs solely to its note.

The young moon has fed Her exhausted horn With the sunset’s fire.

History is a cyclic poem written by time upon the memories of man.

Dust to the dust! but the pure spirit shall flow Back to the burning fountain whence it came, A portion of the Eternal.

Poets, not otherwise than philosophers, painters, sculptors, and musicians, are, in one sense, the creators, and, in another, the creations, of their age.

Love’s very pain is sweet.

A single word even may be a spark of inextinguishable thought.

Sing again, with your dear voice revealing. A tone Of some world far from ours, where music and moonlight and feeling are one.

Hell is a city much like London A populous and smoky city.

All of us who are worth anything, spend our manhood in unlearning the follies, or expiating the mistakes of our youth.

A sensitive plant in a garden grew, And the young winds fed it with silver dew, And it opened its fan like leaves to the light, and closed them beneath the kisses of night.

I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under; And then again I dissolve it in rain, And laugh as I pass in thunder.

To choose one’s victims, to prepare one’s plan minutely, to slake an implacable vengeance, and then to go to bed… There is nothing sweeter in the world.

Being a mother is a little like ‘Groundhog’s Day.’ It’s getting out of bed and doing the exact same things again and again and yet again – and it’s watching it all get undone again and again and yet again. It’s humbling, monotonous, mind-numbing, and solitary.

Every woman should have four pets in her life. A mink in her closet, a jaguar in her garage, a tiger in her bed, and a jackass who pays for everything.

You know what they say, dress your best when you go to bed because you don’t know who you’ll see in your dreams.

I grew up in a flat with my brothers and my cousins. My brothers were in the same bed.

Commune with your own heart upon your bed, and be still.

I often think that a slightly exposed shoulder emerging from a long satin nightgown packs more sex than two naked bodies in bed.

I spend a lot of time in bed when I’m off. But if I’m feeling adventurous, I’ll go to a gallery.