Many an irritating fault, many an unlovely oddity, has come of a hard sorrow.

Blessed is the man, who having nothing to say, abstains from giving wordy evidence of the fact.

I think I am quite wicked with roses. I like to gather them, and smell them till they have no scent left.

I flutter all ways, and fly in none.

I protest against any absolute conclusion.

The years between fifty and seventy are the hardest. You are always being asked to do things, and yet you are not decrepit enough to turn them down.

Her own misery filled her heart—there was no room in it for other people's sorrow.