She whom I love is hard to catch and conquer, Hard, but O the glory of the winning were she won!

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 season of love is the carnival of egoism and it brings a touchstone to our natures.

Earth knows no desolation. She smells regeneration in the moist breath of decay.

On a starred night Prince Lucifer uprose, Tired of his dark dominion swung the fiend . . . He reached a middle height, and at the stars, Which are the brain of heaven, he looked, and sank. Around the ancient track marched, rank on rank, The army of unalterable law.

Possession without obligation to the object possessed approaches felicity.

See ye not, Courtesy is the true Alchemy, turning to gold all it touches and tries?