Although our love is waning, let us stand by the lone border of the lake once more, together in that hour of gentleness. When the poor tired child, passion, falls asleep.

I believe... that our memories are part of one great memory, the memory of Nature herself.

If what I say resonates with you, it's merely because we're branches of the same tree.

O heart! O heart! if she'd but turn her head You'd know the folly of being comforted.

Our words must seem to be inevitable.

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

How can the arts overcome the slow dying of men's hearts that we call progress ?