Shakespeare Is Not Our Poet, But The

What Is Companionship Where Nothing That Improves The Intellect Is Communicated, And Where The Larger Heart Contracts Itself To The Model And Dimension Of The Smaller?

Nothing Is Pleasanter To Me Than Exploring In A Library.

There Is A Vast Deal Of Vital Air In Loving Words.

The Damps Of Autumn Sink Into The Leaves And Prepare Them For The Necessity Of Their Fall; And Thus Insensibly Are We, As Years Close Around Us, Detached From Our Tenacity Of Life By The Gentle Pressure Of Recorded Sorrow.

There Is No More Certain Sign Of A Narrow Mind, Of Stupidity, And Of Arrogance, Than To Stand Aloof From Those Who Think Differently From Us.