I stand amid the roar Of a surf-tormented shore, And I hold within my hand Grains of golden sand- How few! yet how they creep Through my fingers to the deep, While I weep- while I weep!

There are moments when, even to the sober eye of Reason, the world of our sad humanity must assume the aspect of Hell.

There are some secrets which do not permit themselves to be told.

It is by no means an irrational fancy that, in a future existence, we shall look upon what we think our present existence, as a dream.

Tell a scoundrel, three or four times a day, that he is the pink of probity, and you make him at least the perfection of "respectability" in good earnest. On the other hand, accuse an honorable man, too petinaciously, of being a villain, and you fill him with a perverse ambition to show you that you are not altogether in the wrong.

We loved with a love that was more than love.

Leave my loneliness unbroken