There are things of which I may not speak; There are dreams that cannot die; There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak, And bring a pallor into the cheek, And a mist before the eye.

Then followed that beautiful season... Summer.... Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscape Lay as if new created in all the freshness of childhood.

With many readers, brilliancy of style passes for affluence of thought; they mistake buttercups in the grass for immeasurable gold mines under ground.

Music is the language spoken by angels.

All sense of hearing and of sight enfold in the serene delight and quietude of sleep.

The dawn is not distant, nor is the night starless; love is eternal.

The atmosphere breathes rest and comfort, and the many chambers seem full of welcomes.