The Light That Lies In Woman's Eyes.

A Garden Was The Primitive Prison, Till Man With Promethean Felicity And Boldness, Luckily Sinned Himself Out Of It.

The Drinking Man Is Never Less Himself Than During His Sober Intervals.

I Counsel Thee, Shut Not Thy Heart, Nor Thy Library.

I Have Sat Through An Italian Opera, Til, For Sheer Pain, And Inexplicable Anguish, I Have Rushed Out Into The Noisiest Places Of The Crowded Street, To Solace Myself With Sounds Which I Was Not Obliged To Follow And Get Rid Of The Distracting Torment Of Endless, Fruitless, Barren Attention!

When I Am Not Walking, I Am Reading. I Cannot Sit And Think.