When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.
The holiest of holidays are those kept by ourselves in silence and apart; The secret anniversaries of the heart.
Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.
There is no grief like the grief that does not speak.
Art is the child of Nature.
Like a French poem is life; being only perfect in structure when with the masculine rhymes mingled the feminine are.