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!

New angel mine, unhoped for in the world!

Definition of Love: A score of zero in tennis. I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears of all my life.

Earth's crammed with Heaven.

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

What we call Life is a condition of the soul. And the soul must improve in happiness and wisdom, except by its own fault. These tears in our eyes, these faintings of the flesh, will not hinder such improvement.

God's gifts put man's best dreams to shame.