I have loved colours, and not flowers; Their motion, not the swallows wings; And wasted more than half my hours Without the comradeship of things.

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.

I heard the sighing of the reeds At noontide and at evening, And some old dream I had forgotten I seemed to be remembering.

Criticism is properly the rod of divination: a hazel switch for the discovery of buried treasure, not a birch twig for the castigation of offenders.

I like listening to it just as I like looking at a fuchsia drenched with rain.

Qu'est-ce que l'Art, monsieur? C'est la Nature concentree.

Hoc incendium e turre Maecenatiana prospectans laetusque 'flammae,' ut aiebat, 'pulchritudine' Halosin Ilii in illo suo scaenico habitu decantavit.