What monster have we here? A great Deed at this hour of day? A great just deed - and not for pay? Absurd - or insincere?

Let us be content to work To do the things we can, and not presume To fret because it's little.

When the dust of death has choked a great man's voice, the common words he said turn oracles, the common thoughts he yoked like horses draw like griffins.

A man may love a woman perfectly, and yet by no means ignorantly maintain a thousand women have not larger eyes. Enough that she alone has looked at him with eyes that, large or small, have won his soul.

Like to write? Of course, of course I do. I seem to live while I write - it is life, for me.

Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished.

Gaze up at the stars knowing that I see the same sky and wish the same sweet dreams.