The Loss Of Our Illusions Is The

Hypocrites Weep, And You Cannot Tell Their Tears From Those Of Saints; But No Bad Man Ever Laughed Sweetly Yet.

Imagination Without Culture Is Crippled And Moves Slowly; But It Can Be Pure Imagination, And Rich Also, As Folk-lore Will Tell The Vainest.

It Needs A Great Nature To Bear The Weight Of A Great Gratitude.

Could We See When And Where We Are To Meet Again, We Would Be More Tender When We Bid Our Friends Goodbye.

Talent Wears Well, Genius Wears Itself Out; Talent Drives A Snug Brougham In Fact; Genius, A Sun-chariot In Fancy.