To vanish in the chinks that Time has made.

Every day a little life, a blank to be inscribed with gentle thoughts.

Paris strikes the vulgar part of us infinitely the most, but to a thinking mind London is incomparably the most delightful subject for contemplation.

When with care we have raised an imaginary treasure of happiness, we find at last that the materials of the structure are frail and perishing, and the foundation itself is laid in the sand.

To know her was to love her.

Fireside happiness, to hours of ease Blest with that charm, the certainty to please.

Vast and deep the mountain shadows grew.