There is nothing good in this world which time does not improve.
We bury love; Forgetfulness grows over it like grass: That is a thing to weep for, not the dead.
A tender sadness drops upon my soul, like the soft twilight dropping on the world.
If the egotist is weak, his egotism is worthless. If the egotist is strong, acute, full of distinctive character, his egotism is precious, and remains a possession of the race.
The spot of ground on which a man has stood is forever interesting to him.
A poem round and perfect as a star.