Twas Twilight, And The Sunless Day Went

That Famish'd People Must Be Slowly Nurst, And Fed By Spoonfuls, Else They Always Burst.

If I Don't Write To Empty My Mind, I Go Mad. As To That Regular, Uninterrupted Love Of Writing. I Do Not Understand It. I Feel It As A Torture, Which I Must Get Rid Of, But Never As A Pleasure. On The Contrary, I Think Composition A Great Pain.

The Niobe Of Nations! There She Stands.

Oh Who Can Tell, Save He Whose Heart Hath Tried.

I Have Great Hopes That We Shall Love Each Other All Our Lives As Much As If We Had Never Married At All.