Conversation, fastidious goddess, loves blood better than brick, and feasts most subtly on the human will.
But I beneath a rougher sea, And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he.
But I pine in Solitude. Solitude is my undoing.
It seemed to her such nonsense-inventing differences, when people, heaven knows, were different enough without that.
We scarcely wish to analyse what we feel to be so large and deeply human.
Life is not a series of gig lamps symmetrically arranged; life is a luminous halo, a semi-transparent envelope surrounding us from the beginning of consciousness to the end.