Poor Knight! he really had two periods, the firsta dull man writing broken English, the seconda broken man writing dull English.

Our imagination flies -- we are its shadow on the earth.

Alas! In vain historians pry and probe: The same wind blows, and in the same live robe Truth bends her head to fingers curved cupwise; And with a woman's smile and a child's care Examines something she is holding there Concealed by her own shoulder from our eyes.

At eight, he had once told his mother that he wanted to paint air.

Poor Knight! he really had two periods, the firsta dull man writing broken English, the seconda broken man writing dull English.

The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible.

I should allow only my heart to have imagination; and for the rest rely on memory, that long drawn sunset of one's personal truth.