That toil of growing up; The ignominy of boyhood; the distress Of boyhood changing into man; The unfinished man and his pain.

Too long a sacrifice can make a stone of the heart. O when may it suffice?

My father was an angry and impatient teacher and flung the reading book at my head.

A pity beyond all telling is hid in the heart of love.

We have lit upon the gentle, sensitive mind And lost the old nonchalance of the hand; Whether we have chosen chisel, pen or brush, We are but critics, or but half create.

How can I, that girl standing there, My attention fix On Roman or on Russian Or on Spanish politics?

We are fastened to a dying animal.