The holiest of holidays are those kept by ourselves in silence and apart; The secret anniversaries of the heart.

White swan of cities slumbering in thy nest . . . White phantom city, whose untrodden streets Are rivers, and whose pavements are the shifting Shadows of the palaces and strips of sky.

Midnight! the outpost of advancing day! The frontier town and citadel of night!

Often times we call a man [or woman] cold when he [or she] is only sad.

It was a high counsel that I once heard given to a young person, - always do what you are afraid to do.

Take them, O Death! and bear away Whatever thou canst call thine own! Thine image, stamped upon this clay, Doth give thee that, but that alone!

The counterfeit and counterpart of Nature is reproduced in art.