I wish you could invent some means to make me at all happy without you. Every hour I am more and more concentrated in you; everything else tastes like chaff in my mouth.

Dancing music, music sad, Both together, sane and mad.

All my clear-eyed fish, Golden, or rainbow-sided, or purplish, Vermilion-tail'd, or finn'd with silvery gauze... My charming rod, my potent river spells.

Pleasure is oft a visitant; but pain Clings cruelly to us.

Stop and consider! life is but a day

I have an habitual feeling of my real life having past, and that I am leading a posthumous existence.

We have woven a web, you and I, attached to this world but a separate world of our own invention.