The feel of not to feel it, When there is none to heal it Nor numbed sense to steel it.

I Cannot Exist Without You. I Am Forgetful Of Everything But Seeing You Again.

I have good reason to be content, for thank God I can read and perhaps understand Shakespeare to his depths.

How I like claret!...It fills one's mouth with a gushing freshness, then goes down to cool and feverless; then, you do not feel it quarrelling with one's liver. No; 'tis rather a peace-maker, and lies as quiet as it did in the grape. Then it is as fragrant as the Queen Bee, and the more ethereal part mounts into the brain, not assaulting the cerebral apartments, like a bully looking for his trull, and hurrying from door to door, bouncing against the wainscott, but rather walks like Aladdin about his enchanted palace, so gently that you do not feel his step.

Literary men are . . . a perpetual priesthood.

Thou art a dreaming thing, A fever of thyself.

Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams, Lover of loneliness, and wandering, Of upcast eye, and tender pondering! Thee must I praise above all other glories That smile us on to tell delightful stories.