Shake Me Off, Then, Sir--push Me Away;

I Am Not An Angel," I Asserted; "and I Will Not Be One Till I Die: I Will Be Myself.

I Have For The First Time Found What I Can Truly Love–i Have Found You. You Are My Sympathy–my Better Self–my Good Angel–i Am Bound To You With A Strong Attachment. I Think You Good, Gifted, Lovely: A Fervent, A Solemn Passion Is Conceived In My Heart; It Leans To You, Draws You To My Centre And Spring Of Life, Wrap My Existence About You–and, Kindling In Pure, Powerful Flame, Fuses You And Me In One.

Life Appears To Me Too Short To Be Spent In Nursing Animosity, Or Registering Wrongs.

Writers Cannot Choose Their Own Mood: With Them It Is Not Always Hide-tide, Nor --thank Heaven!--always Storm.

His Mind Was Indeed My Library, And Whenever It Was Opened To Me, I Entered Bliss.