Jealousy is love bed of burning snarl.
Memoirs are the backstairs of history.
The season of love is the carnival of egoism and it brings a touchstone to our natures.
Not till the fire is dying in the grate, Look we for any kinship with the stars. Oh, wisdom never comes when it is gold, And the great price we paid for it full worth: We have it only when we are half earth. Little avails that coinage to the old!
We never know what's in us till we stand by ourselves.
Lowly, with a broken neck, The crocus lays her cheek to mire.