Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was wasted; If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters, returning Back to their springs, like the rain, shall fill them full of refreshment; That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain.

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.

Every man has his secret sorrows.

The day is dark and cold and dreary; it rains, and the wind is never weary.

To charm, to strengthen, and to teach: these are the three great chords of might.

Every man has a paradise around him till he sins, and the angel of an accusing conscience drives him from his Eden.

There are things of which I may not speak; There are dreams that cannot die; There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak, And bring a pallor into the cheek, And a mist before the eye.