Is there not a terrible hollowness, mockery, want, craving, in that existence which is given away to others, for want of something of your own to bestow it on?

Prodigious was the amount of life I lived that morning.

Her coming was my hope each day, Her parting was my pain; The chance that did her steps delay Was ice in every vein.

That a greater fool than Jane Eyre had never breathed the breath of life; that a more fantastic idiot had never surfeited herself on sweet lies, and swallowed poison as if it were nectar.

And with that answer, he left me. I would much rather he had knocked me down.

True enthusiasm is a fine feeling whose flash I admire where-ever I see it.

As to the thoughts, they are elfish. Those eyes in the Evening Star you must have seen in a dream.