More women grow old nowadays through the faithfulness of their admirers than through anything else.
Personality must be accepted for what it is. You mustn’t mind that a poet is a drunk, rather that drunks are not always poets.
Wordsworth went to the Lakes, but he was never a lake poet. He found in stones the sermons he had already hidden there.
The real weakness of England lies, not in incomplete armaments or unfortified coasts, not in the poverty that creeps through sunless lanes, or the drunkenness that brawls in loathsome courts, but simply in the fact that her ideals are emotional and not intellectual.
Whatever, in fact, is modern in our life we owe to the Greeks. Whatever is an anachronism is due to mediaevalism.
Though one can dine in New York, one could not dwell there.
Political life at Washington is like political life in a suburban vestry.
The Bostonians take their learning too sadly: culture with them is an accomplishment rather than an atmosphere; their “Hub,” as they call it, is the paradise of prigs.
I find that forgiving one’s enemies is a most curious morbid pleasure; perhaps I should check it.
Please do not shoot the pianist. He is doing his best.
She said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses but in all my garden there is no red rose.
We think that we are generous because we credit our neighbor with those virtues that are likely to benefit ourselves. We praise the banker that we may overdraw our account, and find good qualities in the highwayman in the hope that he may spare our pockets.
There is no doubt that genius lasts longer than beauty.
In all unimportant matters, style, not sincerity, is the essential. In all important matters, style, not sincerity, is the essential.
Live the wonderful life that is in you.
Divorces are made in heaven.
The only possible form of exercise is to talk, not to walk.
The problem with the common person is that he is so unbearably common!
But what of life whose bitter hungry sea Flows at our heels, and gloom of sunless night Covers the days which never more return? Ambition, love and all the thoughts that burn We lose too soon, and only find delight In withered husks of some dead memory.
The sin was mine; I did not understand. So now is music prisoned in her cave, Save where some ebbing desultory wave Frets with its restless whirls this meagre strand...