I love an author the more for having been himself a lover of books.

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

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.

People of a lively imagination are generally curious, and always so when a little in love.

The story, from beginning to end, I found again in a heart of a friend.

Ah, how wonderful is the advent of the Spring!—the great annual miracle.... which no force can stay, no violence restrain, like love, that wins its way and cannot be withstood by any human power, because itself is divine power. If Spring came but once in a century, instead of once a year, or burst forth with the sound of an earthquake, and not in silence, what wonder and expectation would there be in all hearts to behold the miraculous change!... We are like children who are astonished and delighted only by the second-hand of the clock, not by the hour-hand.

They who go Feel not the pain of parting; it is they Who stay behind that suffer.