I saw them kissing in the shade and knew the sum of all my lore: God gave them Youth, God gave them Love, and even God can give no more.

Girl, when he gives you kisses twain, use one, and let the other stay; And hoard it, for moons die, red fades, and you may need a kiss—some day.

Though man or angel judge my life and read it like an open scroll, And weigh my heart, I have judge more just than any—my own soul.

Whether my days are cooled with calm or filled with fever's ardent taint, I have the same blue sky as God, I have the same God as the saint.

At first, she loved nought else but flowers, And then-she only loved the rose; And then-herself alone; and then- She knew not what, but now-she knows.

But work a year and sleep an hour, and sleep a night and sing a day, And take a little wine and love, and when you feel religious—pray.

A strong, brave man is born each month, each year God gives a sage to men, A poet each ten years, perhaps, but an unselfish person,—when?

The Song of Love, the Song of Hate, the Songs of Praise and of Thanksgiving; I've learned them all, but there remains one called the Melody of Living.

Sometimes I think that all mankind exist but to be bought and sold: The rich man's paramour is gold, the poor man's goddess, gold, gold, gold.

Tell Youth to play with Wine and Love and never bear away the scars! I may as well tilt up the sky and yet try not to spill the stars.

Your actions are catalysts to another’s actions. One could last a second, another could last to the end of mankind. Share kindness, plant the seed, help humanity overcome their greed.

Authors who moan with praise for their editors always seem to reek slightly of the Stockholm syndrome.

Amongst the many definitions, there is one that may be generally agreed upon: modernity is the epoch in which simply being modern became a decisive value in itself.

The stars you see at night are the unblinking eyes of sleeping elephants, who sleep with one eye open to best keep watch over us.

The leaves of memory seemed to make A mournful rustling in the dark

Ladies, just a little more virginity, if you don't mind.

It is the stain and disgrace of the age to envy virtue, and to be anxious to crush the very flower of dignity.

All art is a memory of age-old things, dark things, whose fragments live on in the artist.

I'm spectacularly disorganised. I wrote my latest book in seven different notebooks scattered throughout my house.

Attempts to estimate the impacts of climate change continue to be highly speculative.