Love makes its record in deeper colors as we grow out of childhood into manhood.

As Unto the bow the the cord is , So unto the man is woman; Though she bends him, she obeys him, Though she draws him , yet she follows: Useless each without the other.

The hearts of some women tremble like leaves at every breath of love which reaches them, and they are still again. Others, like the ocean, are moved only by the breath of a storm, and not so easily lulled to rest.

Ah! What would the world be to us If the children were no more? We should dread the desert behind us Worse than the dark before.

Nothing that is can pause or stay.

I love an author the more for having been himself a lover of books.

It is curious to note the old sea-margins of human thought! Each subsiding century reveals some new mystery; we build where monsters used to hide themselves.