Talent may be in time forgiven, but genius never
In itself a thought, a slumbering thought is capable of years; and curdles a long life into one hour.
A drop of ink may make a million think.
Sorrow preys upon Its solitude, and nothing more diverts it From its sad visions of the other world Than calling it at moments back to this. The busy have no time for tears.
Had sigh'd to many, though he loved but one.
A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded.