Romanticism Is Beauty Without Bounds-the Beautiful Infinite.

Joys Are Our Wings, Sorrows Our Spurs.

Joy Descends Gently Upon Us Like The Evening Dew, And Does Not Patter Down Like A Hailstorm.

What Cicero Said Of Men-that They Are Like Wines, Age Souring The Bad, And Bettering The Good-we Can Say Of Misfortune, That It Has The Same Effect Upon Them.

Whenever, At A Party, I Have Been In The Mood To Study Fools, I Have Always Looked For A Great Beauty: They Always Gather Round Her Like Flies Around A Fruit Stall.

Gray Hairs Seem To My Fancy Like The Soft Light Of The Moon, Silvering Over The Evening Of Life.