Few Save The Poor Feel For The

Imagination Is To Love What Gas Is To The Balloon-that Which Raises It From Earth.

If There Be Any One Habit Which More Than Another Is The Dry Rot Of All That Is High And Generous In Youth, It Is The Habit Of Ridicule.

Are We Not Like The Actor Of Old Times, Who Wore His Mask So Long His Face Took Its Likeness?

My Tears Are Buried In My Heart, Like Cave-locked Fountains Sleeping.

Our First Love-letter ... There Is So Much To Be Said, And Which No Words Seems Exactly To Say - The Dread Of Saying Too Much Is So Nicely Balanced By The Fear Of Saying Too Little. Hope Borders On Presumption, And Fear On Reproach.