Everything Is Sweetened By Risk.

We Bury Love; Forgetfulness Grows Over It Like Grass: That Is A Thing To Weep For, Not The Dead.

The World Is Not So Much In Need Of New Thoughts As That When Thought Grows Old And Worn With Usage It Should, Like Current Coin, Be Called In, And, From The Mint Of Genius, Reissued Fresh And New.

Love Is But The Discovery Of Ourselves In Others, And The Delight In The Recognition.

The Sea Complains Upon A Thousand Shores.

We Are Never Happy; We Can Only Remember That We Were So Once.