Tears Hinder Sorrow From Becoming Despair.

Poetry Is The Breath Of Beauty.

Nature, At All Events, Humanly Speaking, Is Manifestly Very Fond Of Color; For She Has Made Nothing Without It. Her Skies Are Blue; Her Fields, Green; Her Waters Vary With Her Skies; Her Animals, Vegetables, Minerals, Are All Colored. She Paints A Great Any Of Them In Apparently Superfluous Hues, As If To Show The Dullest Eye How She Loves Color.

An Author Is Like A Baker; It Is For Him To Make The Sweets, And Others To Buy And Enjoy Them.

The Same People Who Can Deny Others Everything Are Famous For Refusing Themselves Nothing.

Beauty Too Often Sacrifices To Fashion.