Only In The Agony Of Parting Do

There Is No Sense Of Ease Like The Ease We Felt In Those Scenes Where We Were Born.

There Is A Sort Of Jealousy Which Needs Very Little Fire; It Is Hardly A Passion, But A Blight Bred In The Cloudy, Damp Despondency Of Uneasy Egoism.

I Always Think The Flowers Can See Us, And Know What We Are Thinking About.

What To One Man Is The Virtue Which He Has Sunk Below The Possibility Of Aspiring To, Is To Another The Backsliding By Which He Forfeits His Spiritual Crown.

There Are Glances Of Hatred That Stab, And Raise No Cry Of Murder.