The true poet is a friendly man. He takes to his arms even cold and inanimate things, and rejoices in his heart.

Today is the blocks with which we build.

And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares, that infest the day, Shall fold their tents like the Arabs, and silently steal away.

To be left alone, and face to face with my own crime, had been just retribution.

The air of summer was sweeter than wine.

I feel a kind of reverence for the first books of young authors. There is so much aspiration in them, so much audacious hope and trembling fear, so much of the heart's history, that all errors and shortcomings are for a while lost sight of in the amiable self assertion of youth.

If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not worth the winning!