Not a man alive has so much luck that he can play with it.

The soul of man is of the imperishable substance of the stars!

I kiss you and kiss you, With arms around my own, Ah, how shall I miss you, When, dear, you have grown.

The creations of a great writer are little more than the moods and passions of his own heart, given surnames and Christian names, and sent to walk the earth.

A line will take us hours maybe; Yet if it does not seem a moment's thought, our stitching and unstitching has been naught.

The blessed spirits must be sought within the self which is common to all

Players and painted stage took all my love, And not those things that they were emblems of.