Dead he is not, but departed, for the artist never dies.

A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain.

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

Love makes its record in deeper colors as we grow out of childhood into manhood; as the Emperors signed their names in green ink when under age, but when of age, in purple.

Joy, temperance, and repose, slam the door on the doctor's nose.

An enlightened mind is not hoodwinked; it is not shut up in a gloomy prison till it thinks the walls of its dungeon the limits of the universe, and the reach of its own chain the outer verge of intelligence.

It is a beautiful trait in the lover's character, that they think no evil of the object loved.