Arthur Symons

The gray-green stretch of sandy grass, Indefinitely desolate A sea of lead, a sky of slate; Already autumn in the air, alas! One stark monotony of stone The long hotel, acutely white, Against the after-sunset light Withers gray-green, and takes the grass's tone.

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.

Here in a little lonely room I am master of earth and sea, And the planets come to me.

And I would have, now love is over, An end to all, an end: I cannot, having been your lover Stoop to become your friend!

He knew that the whole mystery of beauty can never be comprehended by the crowd, and that while clearness is a virtue of style, perfect explicitness is not a necessary virtue.

My soul is like this cloudy, flaming opal ring.

The mystic too full of God to speak intelligibly to the world.

Without charm there can be no fine literature, as there can be no perfect flower with-out fragrance.