No mirror keeps its glances.

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

The traveling heart went free / With endless streams; that strife was stopped; / And down a thousand vales I dropped, / I flowed to Italy.

Spring and autumn are inconsiderable events in a landscape compared with the shadows of a cloud.

The sense of humor has other things to do than to make itself conspicuous in the act of laughter.

I have known some grim bells, with not a single joyous note in the whole peal, so forced to hurry for a human festival, with their harshness made light of, as though the Bishop of Hereford had again been forced to dance in his boots by a merry highwayman.

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