... I have no letter from the dead, yet daily love them more.
The soul selects her own society, Then shuts the door; On her divine majority Obtrude no more.
Opinion is a fitting thing but truth outlasts the sun - if then we cannot own them both, possess the oldest one.
Until you have loved, you cannot become yourself.
The appetite for silence is seldom an acquired taste.
How very sad it is to have a confiding nature, one's hopes and feelings are quite at the mercy of all who come along; and how very desirable to be a stolid individual, whose hopes and aspirations are safe in one's waistcoat pocket, and that a pocket indeed, and one not to be picked!