For No One Does Life Drag More

The Last, Best Fruit Which Comes To Late Perfection, Even In The Kindliest Soul, Is Tenderness Toward The Hard, Forbearance Toward The Unforbearing, Warmth Of Heart Toward The Cold, Philanthropy Toward The Misanthropic.

God Is An Unutterable Sigh, Planted In The Depths Of The Soul.

Sorrows Are Like Thunderclouds, In The Distance They Look Black, Over Our Heads Scarcely Gray.

There Are So Many Tender And Holy Emotions Flying About In Our Inward World, Which, Like Angels, Can Never Assume The Body Of An Outward Act; So Many Rich And Lovely Flowers Spring Up Which Bear No Seed, That It Is A Happiness Poetry Was Invented, Which Receives Into Its Limbs All These Incorporeal Spirits, And The Perfume Of All These Flowers.

Romanticism Is Beauty Without Bounds-the Beautiful Infinite.