“In solitude we give passionate attention to our lives, to our memories, to the details around us.”

It was a silly, silly dream, being unhappy.

I see you everywhere, in the stars, in the river, to me you’re everything that exists; the reality of everything.

I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.

We are the words; we are the music; we are the thing itself.

I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out; and I thought how it is worse, perhaps, to be locked in.

I enjoy the spring more than the autumn now. One does, I think, as one gets older.

A self that goes on changing is a self that goes on living.

The mind must be allowed to settle undisturbed over the object in order to secrete the pearl.

I can only note that the past is beautiful because one never realises an emotion at the time. It expands later, and thus we don’t have complete emotions about the present, only about the past.

When you consider things like the stars, our affairs don’t seem to matter very much, do they?

A light here required a shadow there.

Illusions are to the soul what atmosphere is to the earth.

If you do not tell the truth about yourself you cannot tell it about other people.

Melancholy were the sounds on a winter’s night.

Books are the mirrors of the soul.

I am rooted, but I flow.