The world's male chivalry has perished out, but women are knights-errant to the last; and, if Cervantes had been greater still, he had made his Don a Donna.

Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west.

Books, books, books! I had found the secret of a garret room Piled high with cases in my father’s name; Piled high, packed large,--where, creeping in and out Among the giant fossils of my past, Like some small nimble mouse between the ribs Of a mastodon, I nibbled here and there At this or that box, pulling through the gap, In heats of terror, haste, victorious joy, The first book first. And how I felt it beat Under my pillow, in the morning’s dark, An hour before the sun would let me read! My books!

And if God choose I shall but love thee better after death.

Souls are dangerous things to carry straight through all the spilt saltpetre of this world.

Earth's crammed with heaven, And every common bush afire with God: But only he who sees takes off his shoes.

What I do and what I dream include thee, as the wine must taste of its own grapes.