Artists are always young.

Pain has no effect but to steal some of my time.

What a difference it makes to come home to a child!

We would have every arbitrary barrier thrown down. We would have every path laid open to woman as freely as to man.

We need to hear the excuses men make to themselves for their worthlessness.

But the golden-rod is one of the fairy, magical flowers; it grows not up to seek human love amid the light of day, but to mark to the discerning what wealth lies hid in the secret caves of earth.

Who can ever be alone for a moment in Italy? Every stone has a voice, every grain of dust seems instinct with spirit from the Past, every step recalls some line, some legend of long-neglected lore.