'perhaps all our loves are merely hints and symbols; vagabond-language scrawled on gate-posts and paving-stones along the weary road that others have tramped before us; perhaps you and I are types and this sadness which sometimes falls between us springs from disappointment in our search, each straining through and beyond the other, snatching a glimpse now and then of the shadow whcih turns the corner always a pace or two ahead of us.'

We possess nothing certainly except the past.

I have lived carefully, sheltered myself from the cold winds, eaten moderately of what was in season, drunk fine claret, slept in my own sheets; I shall live l…

My theme is memory, that winged host that soared about me one grey morning of war-time.

A melhor definicao do amor nao vale um beijo de moca namorada.

Two disappointed believers Two people playing the game Negotiations and love songs Are often mistaken for one and the same.

If women could be fair and yet not fond, Or that their love were firm, not fickle still, I would not marvel that they make men bond By service long to purchase…