In Solitude, When We Are Least Alone.

But Words Are Things, And A Small Drop Of Ink, Falling Like Dew, Upon A Thought, Produces That Which Makes Thousands, Perhaps Millions, Think.

To Have Joy, One Must Share It.

Friendship May, And Often Does, Grow Into Love, But Love Never Subsides Into Friendship.

This Sort Of Adoration Of The Real Is But A Heightening Of The Beau Ideal.

There Is No Such Thing As A Life Of Passion Any More Than A Continuous Earthquake, Or An Eternal Fever. Besides, Who Would Ever Shave Themselves In Such A State?