I scarcely remember counting upon happiness—I look not for it if it be not in the present hour—nothing startles me beyond the moment. The setting sun will always set me to rights, or if a sparrow come before my Window I take part in its existence and pick about the gravel.

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

...yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From out dark spirits.

How sad it is when a luxurious imagination is obliged in self defense to deaden its delicacy in vulgarity, and riot in things attainable that it may not have leisure to go mad after things that are not.

The thought, the deadly thought of solitude.

I compare human life to a large mansion of many apartments, two of which I can only describe, the doors of the rest being as yet shut upon me.

Land and sea, weakness and decline are great separators, but death is the great divorcer for ever.