Many ingenious lovely things are gone / That seemed sheer miracle to the multitude.

When I clamber to the heights of sleep, Or when I grow excited with wine, suddenly I meet your face.

Life is a journey up a spiral staircase; as we grow older we cover the ground covered we have covered before, only higher up; as we look down the winding stair below us we measure our progress by the number of places where we were but no longer are. The journey is both repetitious and progressive; we go both round and upward.

The pain others give passes away in their later kindness, but that of our own blunders, especially when they hurt our vanity, never passes away

Life is a long preparation for something that never happens.

We are happy when for everything inside us there is a corresponding something outside us.

Fair and foul are near of kin And fair needs foul," I cried. "My friends are gone, but that's a truth Nor grave nor bed denied."