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.

As Unto the bow the the cord is , So unto the man is woman; Though she bends him, she obeys him, Though she draws him , yet she follows: Useless each without the other.

And when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the silence.

The love of learning, the sequestered nooks, And all the sweet serenity of books.

If we could read the secret history of our enemies we should find in each man's life sorrow and suffering enough to disarm all hostility.

Music is the language spoken by angels.

There is no death! What seems so is transition; this life of mortal breath is but a suburb of the life elysian, whose portal we call Death.