Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams The summer time away.

His religion at best is an anxious wish,-like that of Rabelais, a great Perhaps.

Nothing ever becomes real till experienced – even a proverb is no proverb until your life has illustrated it

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter.

My love is selfish. I cannot breathe without you.

Health is my expected heaven.

Give me books, fruit, French wine and fine weather and a little music out of doors, played by someone I do not know. I admire lolling on a lawn by a water-lilied pond to eat white currants and see goldfish: and go to the fair in the evening if I'm good. There is not hope for that -one is sure to get into some mess before evening.