But O the truth, the truth. The many eyes That look on it The diverse things they see.

A kiss is but a kiss now! and no wave of a great flood that whirls me to the sea. But, as you will! we'll sit contentedly, and eat our pot of honey on the grave.

The most dire disaster in love is the death of imagination.

Jealousy is love bed of burning snarl.

Among the Diaries beginning with the second quarter of our century, there is frequent mention of a lady then becoming famous for her beauty and her wit: "an unusual combination," in the deliberate syllables of one of the writers, who is, however, not disposed to personal irony when speaking of her.

A house with a great wine stored below lives in our imagination as a joyful house, fast and splendidly rooted in the soil.

Cultivated men and women who do not skim the cream of life, and are attached to the duties, yet escape the harsher blows, make acute and balanced observers.