A pine tree standeth lonely In the North on an upland bare; It standeth whitely shrouded With snow, and sleepeth there. It dreameth of a Palm tree Which far in the East alone, In the mournful silence standeth On its ridge of burning stone.

Nature, like a true poet, abhors abrupt transitions.

From every Englishman emanates a kind of gas, the deadly choke-damp of boredom.

I do not know if she was virtuous, but she was ugly, and with a woman that is half the battle.

If you wish to strive for peace of soul and pleasure, then believe.

Like a great poet, Nature knows how to produce the greatest effects with the most limited means.

Oh, what lies there are in kisses.