Youth is a season that has no repose.

A sealed book, at whose contents we tremble.

Strange the affection which clings to inanimate objects - objects which cannot even know our love! But it is not return that constitutes the strength of an attachment.

I do love violets; they tell the history of woman's love.

Our first love-letter ... There is so much to be said, and which no words seems exactly to say - the dread of saying too much is so nicely balanced by the fear of saying too little. Hope borders on presumption, and fear on reproach.

In sad truth, half our forebodings of our neighbors are but our own wishes, which we are ashamed to utter in any other form.

Perhaps, from an innate desire of justification, sorrow always exaggerates itself. Memory is quite one of Job's friends; and the past is ever ready to throw its added darkness on the present.