Ye are better than all the ballads That ever were sung or said; For ye are living poems, And all the rest are dead.

Ah, how good it feels! The hand of an old friend.

That tree is very old, but I never saw prettier blossoms on it than it now bears. That tree grows new wood each year. Like that apple tree, I try to grow a new little wood each year.

The air is full of farewells to the dying. And mournings for the dead.

Dreams or illusions, call them what you will, they lift us from the commonplace of life to better things.

It is a beautiful trait in the lover's character, that they think no evil of the object loved.

What child has a heart to sing in this capricious clime of ours, when spring comes sailing in from the sea, with wet and heavy cloud-sails and the misty pennon of the east-wind nailed to the mast.