This above all: be true, be true, be true.
And there I sat, long long ago, waiting for the world to know me.
Strength is incomprehensible by weakness, and, therefore, the more terrible.
We are but shadows: we are, not endowed with real life, and all that seems most real about us is but the thinnest substance of a dream,--till the heart be touched. That touch creates us--then we begin to be--thereby we are beings of reality and inheritors of eternity.
Echo is the voice of a reflection in a mirror.
In all her intercourse with society, however, there was nothing that made her feel as if she belonged to it... She stood apart from mortal interests, yet close beside them, like a ghost that revisits the familiar fireside, and can no longer make itself seen or felt.