A poem round and perfect as a star.

Thoughts must come naturally, like wild-flowers; they cannot be forced in a hot-bed, even although aided by the leaf-mould of your past.

The dead keep their secrets, and in a while we shall be as wise as they - and as taciturn.

Trifles make up the happiness or the misery of mortal life.

I go into my library, and all history unrolls before me. I breathe the morning air of the world while the scent of Eden's roses yet lingered in it, while it vibrated only to the world's first brood of nightingales, and to the laugh of Eve. I see the pyramids building; I hear the shoutings of the armies of Alexander.

Style, after all, rather than thought, is the immortal thing in literature.

I go into my library and all history unrolls before me.