When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.
The Helicon of too many poets is not a hill crowned with sunshine and visited by the Muses and the Graces, but an old, mouldering house, full of gloom and haunted by ghosts.
Talk not of wasted affection - affection never was wasted.
We are all architects of faith, ever living in these walls of time.
My soul is full of longing for the secret of the sea
We have not wings we cannot soar; but, we have feet to scale and climb, by slow degrees, by more and more, the cloudy summits of our time.