I have often thought what a melancholy world this would be without children, and what an inhuman world without the aged.

This world has angels all too few, and heaven is overflowing.

To see him act is like reading Shakespeare by flashes of lightning.

Like one, that on a lonesome road Doth walk in fear and dread, And having once turned round walks on, And turns no more his head; Because he knows, a frightful fiend Doth close behind him tread.

That willing suspension of disbelief for the moment, which constitutes poetic faith.

It is a flat'ning Thought, that the more we have seen, the less we have to say.

For compassion a human heart suffices, but for full and adequate sympathy, with joy, an angel's only.