It is singular how soon we lose the impression of what ceases to be constantly before us. A year impairs, a luster obliterates. There is little distinct left without an effort of memory, then indeed the lights are rekindled for a moment - but who can be sure that the Imagination is not the torch-bearer?

A small drop of ink makes thousands, perhaps millions... think.

My slumbers--if I slumber--are not sleep, But a continuance of enduring thought, Which then I can resist not: in my heart There is a vigil, and these eyes but close To look within; and yet I live, and bear The aspect and the form of breathing men.

For a man to become a poet (witness Petrarch and Dante), he must be in love, or miserable.

A timid mind is apt to mistake every scratch for a mortal wound.

[Armenian] is a rich language, however, and would amply repay any one the trouble of learning it.

The devil hath not, in all his quiver's choice, An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice.