There Is No Truth. Only Points Of

The Trouble About Most Englishwomen Is That They Will Dress As If They Had Been A Mouse In A Previous Incarnation, Or Hope To Be One In The Next.

The Reason Why Matthew Arnold, To My Feeling, Fails Entirely As A Poet (though No Doubt His Ideas Were Good - At Least, I Am Told They Were) Is That He Had No Sense Of Touch Whatsoever. Nothing Made Any Impression On His Skin. He Could Feel Neither The Shape Nor The Texture Of A Poem With His Hands.

All Great Poetry Is Dipped In The Dyes Of The Heart.

By 'happiness' I Do Not Mean Worldly Success Or Outside Approval, Though It Would Be Priggish To Deny That Both These Things Are Most Agreeable. I Mean The Inner Consciousness, The Inner Conviction That One Is Doing Well The Thing That One Is Best Fitted To Do By Nature.

The Poet Is The Complete Lover Of Mankind.