Many writers lay very great stress upon some definite moral purpose, at which they profess to aim their works.

I wish I had the gift of making rhymes, for methinks there is poetry in my head and heart since I have been in love with you.

In the depths of every heart, there is a tomb and a dungeon, though the lights, the music, and revelry above may cause us to forget their existence, and the buried ones, or prisoners whom they hide. But sometimes, and oftenest at midnight, those dark receptacles are flung wide open. In an hour like this, when the mind has a passive sensibility, but no active strength; when the imagination is a mirror, imparting vividness to all ideas, without the power of selecting or controlling them; then pray that your grieves may slumber, and the brotherhood of remorse not break their chain.

I cannot endure to waste anything as precious as autumn sunshine by staying in the house. So I spend almost all the daylight hours in the open air.

Let the black flower blossom as it may!

A pure hand needs no glove to cover it.

Not yet hardened, many young die good.