Great women belong to history and to self-sacrifice, not to the annals of a stage, however dignified.

The fish is swift, small-needing, vague yet clear, A cold, sweet, silver life, wrapped in round waves.

Bread, milk and butter are of venerable antiquity. They taste of the morning of the world.

Affection, like melancholy, magnifies trifles.

An author is like a baker; it is for him to make the sweets, and others to buy and enjoy them.

It flows through old hushed Egypt and its sands, Like some grave mighty thought threading a dream, And times and things, as in that vision, seem Keeping along it their eternal stands.

Oh for a seat in some poetic nook, Just hid with trees and sparkling with a brook!