In praising or loving a child, we love and praise not that which is, but that which we hope for.

My poor head is in such a whirl, my mind is all in bits.

You don't have to travel around the world to understand that the sky is blue everywhere

I make presents to the mother but think of the daughter.

Plants and flowers of the commonest kind can form a pleasing diary, because nothing which calls back to us the remembrance of a happy moment can be insignificant.

I have found a paper of mine among some others in which I call architecture 'petrified music.' Really there is something in this; the tone of mind produced by architecture approaches the effect of music.

If I love you, what business is it of yours?