Death is the mother of Beauty; hence from her, alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams and our desires.

I do not know which to prefer, The beauty of inflections, Or the beauty of innuendoes, The blackbird whistling, Or just after.

After the final no there comes a yes and on that yes the future of the world hangs.

Poor, dear, silly Spring, preparing her annual surprise!

The day of the sun is like the day of a king. It is a promenade in the morning, a sitting on the throne at noon, a pageant in the evening.

In the world of words, the imagination is one of the forces of nature.