In life, as in art, the beautiful moves in curves.

Days are like years in the love of the young, when no bar, no obstacle, is between their hearts,--when the sun shines, and the course runs smooth--when their love is prosperous and confessed.

Love is on the verge of hate each time it stoops for pardon.

He who writes prose builds his temple to Fame in rubble; he who writes verses builds it in granite.

Why should the soul ever repose? God, its Principle, reposes never.

Love sacrifices all things to bless the thing it loves.

We love the beautiful and serene, but we have a feeling as deep as love for the terrible and dark.