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.

Failure is in a sense the highway to success, as each discovery of what is false leads us to seek earnestly after what is true.

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?

O let me lead her gently o'er the brook, Watch her half-smiling lips and downward look; O let me for one moment touch her wrist; Let me one moment to her breathing list; And as she leaves me, may she often turn Her fair eyes looking through her locks auburne.

Conversation is not a search after knowledge, but an endeavor at effect.

You cannot conceive how I ache to be with you: how I would die for one hour.

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