Vaguely conscious of that great suspense in which we live, we find our escape from its sterile, annihilating reality in many dreams, in religion, passion, art.

As a perfume doth remain In the folds where it hath lain, So the thought of you, remaining Deeply folded in my brain, Will not leave me; all things leave me -You remain. Other thoughts...

As perfume doth remain In the folds where it hath lain, So the thought of you, remaining Deeply folded in my brain, Will not leave me: all things leave me: You remain

A realist, in Venice, would become a romantic by mere faithfulness to what he saw before him.

What we ask of him is, that he should find out for us more than we can find out for ourselves. He must have the passion of a lover.