The season of love is the carnival of egoism and it brings a touchstone to our natures.
Possession without obligation to the object possessed approaches felicity.
Faith works miracles. At least it allows time for them.
That rarest gift to Beauty, Common Sense!
George Eliot has the heart of Sappho; but the face, with the long proboscis, the protruding teeth of the Apocalyptic horse, betrayed animality.
Lowly, with a broken neck, The crocus lays her cheek to mire.