A pure hand needs no glove to cover it.

Masculine observers, if the birth-mark did not heighten their admiration, contented themselves with wishing it away, that the world might possess one living specimen of ideal loveliness, without the semblance of a flaw.

Death should take me while I am in the mood.

A grave, wherever found, preaches a short and pithy sermon to the soul.

As the moral gloom of the world overpowers all systematic gaiety, even so was their home of wild mirth made desolate amid the sad forest.

There can be...no power...to disclose...the secrets that may be buried with a human heart. The heart, making itself guilty of such secrets, must perforce hold them until the day when all hidden things be revealed.

There is something truer and more real, than what we can see with the eyes, and touch with the finger.