Our fathers valued change for the sake of its results; we value it in the act.

If life is not always poetical, it is at least metrical.

The cloud controls the light ... It is the cloud that, holding the sun's rays in a sheaf as a giant holds a handful of spears, strikes the horizon, touches the extreme edge with a delicate revelation of light, or suddenly puts it out and makes the foreground shine.

No mirror keeps its glances.

Rome in the ages, dimmed with all her towers, / Floats in the mist, a little cloud at tether.

But, visiting Sea, your love doth press / And reach in further than you know, / And fills all these; and, when you go, / There's loneliness in loneliness.

There is no innocent sleep so innocent as sleep shared between a woman and a child, the little breath hurrying beside the longer, as a child's foot runs.