But O the truth, the truth. The many eyes That look on it The diverse things they see.
Speech is the small change of silence.
George Eliot has the heart of Sappho; but the face, with the long proboscis, the protruding teeth of the Apocalyptic horse, betrayed animality.
The future not being born, my friend, we will abstain from baptizing it.
Prepare, You lovers, to know Love a thing of moods: Not like hard life, of laws.
Not till the fire is dying in the grate, Look we for any kinship with the stars.