Victorian sorrow: the stars are winking in the sky, but not for us.

Pity drowns in numbers.

With age, the mind grows slower and more wily.

In the great cities, winter glitters with art and feasting. But poetry, the country cousin, sees only the dearth of the fields.

The facts, even the real ones, must be imagined before they can be stated.

Envy grieves. Jealousy rages.

We often disguise our reflexes as deliberate actions.