Think where man’s glory most begins and ends, and say my glory was I had such friends.
We taste and feel and see the truth. We do not reason ourselves into it.
Cast a cold eye On life, on death. Horseman, pass by!
The Land of Faery, Where nobody gets old and godly and grave, Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise, Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue.
Much did I rage when young, Being by the world oppressed, But now with flattering tongue It speeds the parting guest.
Hearts are not had as a gift, But hearts are earned...
Words are always getting conventionalized to some secondary meaning. It is one of the works of poetry to take the truants in custody and bring them back to their right senses.
What can be explained is not poetry.
The tragedy of sexual intercourse is the perpetual virginity of the soul.
Because I helped to wind the clock, I come to hear it strike.
How far away the stars seem, and how far is our first kiss, and ah, how old my heart.
People who lean on logic and philosophy and rational exposition end by starving the best part of the mind.
I wonder anybody does anything at Oxford but dream and remember.
I heard the old, old, men say ‘all that’s beautiful drifts away, like the waters.’
Life is a long preparation for something that never happens.
The worst thing about some men is that when they are not drunk they are sober.
An intellectual hatred is the worst.
One should not lose one’s temper unless one is certain of getting more and more angry to the end.
If suffering brings wisdom, I would wish to be less wise.
Designs in connection with postage stamps and coinage may be described, I think, as the silent ambassadors on national taste.