You speak of Lord Byron and me; there is this great difference between us. He describes what he sees I describe what I imagine. Mine is the hardest task.

Give me books, French wine, fruit, fine weather and a little music played out of doors by somebody I do not know.

Are there not thousands in the world who love their fellows even to the death, who feel the giant agony of the world, and more, like slaves to poor humanity, labor for mortal good?

A man should have the fine point of his soul taken off to become fit for this world.

My mind has been the most discontented and restless one that ever was put into a body too small for it.

On a lone winter evening, when the frost Has wrought a silence.

Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown, To bow for gratitude before Jove's throne.