Art, like Nature, has her monsters, things of bestial shape and with hideous voices.

I am sick to death of cleverness. Everybody is clever nowadays.

Requiescat Tread lightly, she is near Under the snow, Speak gently, she can hear The daisies grow. All her bright golden hair Tarnished with rust, She that was young and fair Fallen to dust. Lily-like, white as snow, She hardly knew She was a woman, so Sweetly she grew. Coffin-board, heavy stone, Lie on her breast, I vex my heart alone She is at rest. Peace, Peace, she cannot hear Lyre or sonnet, All my life’s buried here, Heap earth upon it.

You have always told me it was Ernest. I have introduced you to every one as Ernest. You answer to the name of Ernest. You look as if your name was Ernest. You are the most earnest-looking person I ever saw in my life. It is perfectly absurd your saying that your name isn't Ernest.

He hasn't an enemy in the world, and none of his friend like him.

What seems to us as bitter trials are often blessings in disguise

In modern life nothing produces such an effect as a good platitude. It makes the whole world kin.