How many good books suffer neglect through the inefficiency of their beginnings!

That single thought is enough. The impulse increases to a wish, the wish to a desire, the desire to an uncontrollable longing, and the longing (to the deep regret and mortification of the speaker, and in defiance of all consequences,) is indulged.

The plots of God are perfect. The Universe is a plot of God.

I remained too much inside my head and ended up losing my mind.

No pictorial or sculptural combinations of points of human loveliness, do more than approach the living and breathing human beauty as it gladdens our daily path.

The nose of a mob is its imagination. By this, at any time, it can be quietly led.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary.