FridayMar 13, 2026
Quotes: 53419 Authors: 9969
Arthur William Symons (February 28, 1865 - January 22, 1945), was a British poet, critic and magazine editor.
Without charm there can be no fine literature, as there can be no perfect flower with-out fragrance.
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.
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