Yes," I said, "for the love of God!

We loved with a love that was more than love.

I never can hear a crowd of people singing and gesticulating, all together, at an Italian opera, without fancying myself at Athens, listening to that particular tragedy, by Sophocles, in which he introduces a full chorus of turkeys, who set about bewailing the death of Meleager.

Boston: Their hotels are bad. Their pumpkin pies are delicious. Their poetry is not so good.

Believe only half of what you see and nothing that you hear.

We gave the Future to the winds, and slumbered tranquilly in the Present, weaving the dull world around us into dreams.

From a proud tower in the town, Death looks gigantically down.