Oh, Only Those Whose Souls Have Felt

Every Other Species Of Talent Carries With It Its Eternity; We Enjoy The Work Of The Poet, The Painter, The Sculptor, Only As Thousands Will Do After Us; But The Actor - His Memory Is With His Generation, And That Passes Away.

There Is No Wretchedness Like Self-reproach.

Ah, Tell Me Not That Memory Sheds Gladness O'er The Past; What Is Recalled By Faded Flowers, Save That They Did Not Last? Were It Not Better To Forget, Than But Remember And Regret?

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

Oh, No! My Heart Can Never Be Again In Lightest Hopes The Same; The Love That Lingers There For Thee Hath More Of Ashes Than Of Flame.