Leave words to them whom words, not doings, move. 
I heard the sighing of the reedsAt noontide and at evening,And some old dream I had forgottenI seemed to be remembering. 
I would wash the dust of the world in a soft green flood. Here between sea and sea in a fairy wood, I have found a delicate wave-green solitude. 
Love is a flaming heart, and its flames aspire / Till they cloud the soul in the smoke of a windy fire. 
The English mist is always at work like a subtle painter, and London is a vast canvas prepared for the mist to work on. 
All art is a form of artifice.For in art there can be no prejudices. 
The clamours of spring are the same old delicate noises, The earth renews its magical youth at a breath. 
A place has almost a shyness of a person with strangers; its secret is not to be surprised by too direct interrogation. 
I have laid sorrow to sleep;Love sleeps.She who oft made me weepNow weeps. 
There are certain natures to whom work is nothing, the act of work everything. 
The making of one's life into art is, after all, the first duty and privilege of every man. 
It is in their eyes that their magic resides. 
And I would have, now love is over, An end to all, an end: I cannot, having been your lover Stoop to become your friend! 
Life is a dream in the night, a fear among fears, A naked runner lost in a storm of spears. 
Without charm there can be no fine literature, as there can be no perfect flower without fragrance. 
What we ask of him is, that he should find out for us more than we can find out for ourselves. He must have the passion of a lover. 
Here in a little lonely room I am master of earth and sea, And the planets come to me. 
To have loved, to have been made happy thus, / What better fate has life in store for us? 