We have hearts within, Warm, live, improvident, indecent hearts.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

And Marlowe, Webster, Fletcher, Ben, Whose fire-hearts sowed our furrows when The world was worthy of such men.

At painful times, when composition is impossible and reading not enough, grammars and dictionaries are excellent for distraction.

I, who had had my heart full for hours, took advantage of an early moment of solitude, to cry in it very bitterly. Suddenly a little hairy head thrust itself from behind my pillow into my face, rubbing its ears and nose against me in a responsive agitation, and drying the tears as they came.

Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished.

For 'Tis not in mere death that men die most.