It is impossible, to me at least, to be poetical in cold weather.

It is the way with half the truth amidst which we live, that it only haunts us and makes dull pulsations that are never born into sound.

I'm not one of those that can see the cat in the dairy and wonder what she's there for.

Decide on what you think is right, and stick to it.

A man deep-wounded may feel too much pain To feel much anger.

What furniture can give such finish to a room as a tender woman's face? And is there any harmony of tints that has such stirring of delight as the sweet modulation of her voice?

Much of our waking experience is but a dream in the daylight.