But I don't think of the future, or the past, I feast on the moment. This is the secret of happiness, but only reached now in middle age.

For the eye has this strange property: it rests only on beauty.

Fear no more, says the heart, committing its burden to some sea, which sighs collectively for all sorrows, and renews, begins, collects, lets fall

Praise and blame alike mean nothing. No, delightful as the pastime of measuring may be, it is the most futile of all occupations, and to submit to the decrees of the measurers the most servile of attitudes.

One must love everything.

Melancholy were the sounds on a winter's night.

For what Harley Street specialist has time to understand the body, let alone the mind or both in combination, when he is a slave to thirteen thousand a year?