Life has no memory. That which proceeds in succession might be remembered, but that which is coexistent, or ejaculated from a deeper cause, as yet far from being conscious, knows not its own tendency.

The only gift is a portion of thyself . . . the poet brings his poem; the shepherd his lamb. . . .

There are books... which rank in our life with parents and lovers and passionate experiences.

When the boys come into my yard for leave to gather horse-chestnuts, I own I enter into nature's game, and affect to grant the permission reluctantly, fearing that any moment they will find out the imposture of that showy chaff. But this tenderness is quite unnecessary; the enchantments are laid on very thick. Their young life is thatched with them. Bare and grim to tears is the lot of the children in the hovel I saw yesterday; yet not the less they hang it round with frippery romance, like the children of the happiest fortune.

There is no beautifier of complexion, or form, or behavior, like the wish to scatter joy and not pain around us.

Shakespeare will never be made by the study of Shakespeare.

Cunning is strength withheld.