Wondrous strong are the spells of fiction.
Ne speaketh not; and yet there lies a conversation in his eyes.
The hooded clouds, like friars, Tell their beads in drops of rain.
Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.
He that respects himself is safe from others. He wears a coat of mail that none can pierce.
Many have genius, but, wanting art, are forever dumb. The two must go together to form the great poet, painter, or sculptor.