That love is all there is, Is all we know of love.

To lose what we have never owned might seem an eccentric bereavement, but Presumption has its own affliction as well as claim.

Good times are always mutual; that is what makes good times.

Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words, And never stops at all, And sweetest in the gale is heard; And sore must be the storm That could abash the little bird That kept so many warm. I've heard it in the chilliest land And on the strangest sea; Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a crumb of me.

A great hope fell You heard no noise The ruin was within.

The appetite for silence is seldom an acquired taste.

The Crime, from us, is hidden, [though] he is presumed to know.