How is it that the poets have said so many fine things about our first love, so few about our later love? Are their first poems their best? or are not those the best which come from their fuller thought, their larger experience, their deeper-rooted affections? The boy's flute-like voice has its own spring charm; but the man should yield a richer, deeper music.

Your dunce who can't do his sums always has a taste for the infinite.

But with regard to critical occasions, it often happens that all moments seem comfortably remote until the last.

A woman's hopes are woven of sunbeams; a shadow annihilates them.

Art is the nearest thing to life; it is a mode of amplifying experience and extending our contact with our fellow men beyond the bounds of our personal lot.

The golden moments in the stream of life rush past us, and we see nothing but sand; the angels come to visit us, and we only know them when they are gone.

In poor Rosamond's mind there was not room enough for luxuries to look small in.