All thoughts, all passions, all delights Whatever stirs this mortal frame All are but ministers of Love And feed His sacred flame.

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

Novels are to love as fairy tales to dreams.

Water, water, everywhere, And all the boards did shrink; Water, water, everywhere, Nor any drop to drink.

The most happy marriage I can picture or imagine to myself would be the union of a deaf man to a blind woman.

The one red leaf, the last of its clan, That dances as often as dance it can, Hanging so light, and hanging so high, On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.

For I often please myself with the fancy, now that I may have saved from oblivion the only striking passage in a whole volume, and now that I may have attracted notice to a writer undeservedly forgotten.