Of dead kingdoms I recall the soul, sitting amid their ruins

The rain is playing its soft pleasant tune fitfully on the skylight, and the shade of the fast-flying clouds across my book passed with delicate change.

How like a mounting devil in the heart rules the unreined ambition.

There is no divining-rod whose dip shall tell us at twenty what we shall most relish at thirty.

The lily and the rose in her fair face striving for precedence.

The innocence that feels no risk and is taught no caution, is more vulnerable than guilt, and oftener assailed.

It is godlike to unloose the spirit, and forget yourself in thought.