I Do Not Murmur, Even

Perfumes Are The Feelings Of Flowers, And As The Human Heart, Imagining Itself Alone And Unwatched, Feels Most Deeply In The Night-time, So Seems It As If The Flowers, In Musing Modesty, Await The Mantling Eventide Ere They Give Themselves Up Wholly To Feeling...

The Blossoms And Leaves In Plenty From The Apple Tree Fall Each Day; The Merry Breezes Approach Them, And With Them Merrily Play.

There Is One Thing On Earth More Terrible Than English Music, And That Is English Painting.

Write . . . Write . . . Pencil . . . Paper.

Newness Hath An Evanescent Beauty.