Let us be merciful as well as just.

Nature paints not; In oils, but frescoes the great dome of heaven; With sunsets, and the lovely forms of clouds; And flying vapors.

Like black hulks the shadows of the great trees ride at anchor on the billowy sea of grass.

The secret studies of an author are the sunken piers upon which is to rest the bridge of his fame, spanning the dark waters of oblivion. They are out of sight, but without them no superstructure can stand secure.

The soul...is audible, not visible.

Softly the evening came /with the sunset/.

What seems to us but dim funeral tapers may be heaven's distant lamps.