A power of Butterfly must be - The Aptitude to fly Meadows of Majesty concedes And easy Sweeps of Sky -

Enough is so vast a sweetness I suppose it never occurs.

Heart, we will forget him! You and I, to-night! You may forget the warmth he gave, I will forget the light. When you have done, pray tell me, That I my thoughts may dim; Haste! lest while you’re lagging, I may remember him!

They say that 'home is where the heart is.' I think it is where the house is, and the adjacent buildings.

There is always one thing to be grateful for - that one is one's self and not somebody else.

Wonder is not precisely knowing.

Inebriate of air am I, And debauchee of dew, Reeling, through endless summer days, From inns of molten blue.