Yes, I answered you last night; No, this morning, sir, I say: Colors seen by candle-light Will not look the same by day.

The little cares that fretted me, I lost them yesterday Among the fields above the sea, Among the winds at play.

My love for him was so exquisitely pure that if we all were capable of giving and receiving such a beautiful gift the world would be a far more brilliant place; I think we'd all be poets.

Who so loves believes the impossible.

Girls blush, sometimes, because they are alive, half wishing they were dead to save the shame. The sudden blush devours them, neck and brow; They have drawn too near the fire of life, like gnats, and flare up bodily, wings and all. What then? Who's sorry for a gnat or girl?

A woman's pity sometimes makes her mad.

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