All God's angels come to us disguised.

There is nothing so desperately monotonous as the sea, and I no longer wonder at the cruelty of pirates.

And the choice goes by forever 'twixt that darkness and that light.

Books are the bees which carry the quickening pollen from one to another mind.

With every step of the recent traveler our inheritance of the wonderful is diminished. Those beautiful pictured notes of the possible are redeemed at a ruinous discount in the hard coin of the actual.

Death is delightful. Death is dawn, The waking from a weary night Of fevers unto truth and light.

I willingly confess to so great a partiality for trees as tempts me to respect a man in exact proportion to his respect for them.