Anger and jealousy can no more bear to lose sight of their objects than love.

My books don't seem to belong to me after I have once written them; and I find myself delivering opinions about them as if I had nothing to do with them.

Each thought is a nail that is driven In structures that cannot decay; And the mansion at last will be given To us as we build it each day.

But how little we know what would make paradise for our neighbours! We judge from our own desires, and our neighbours themselves are not always open enough even to throw out a hint of theirs.

Those only can thoroughly feel the meaning of death who know what is perfect love.

I don't want the world to give me anything for my books except money enough to save me from the temptation to write only for money.

A child, more than all other gifts That earth can offer to declining man, Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts." —WORDSWORTH.