One of the pleasures of reading old letters is the knowledge that they need no answer.
Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is passed in sleep.
It is odd but agitation or contest of any kind gives a rebound to my spirits and sets me up for a time.
Lovers may be - and indeed generally are - enemies, but they never can be friends, because there must always be a spice of jealousy and a something of Self in all their speculations.
Friendship may, and often does, grow into love, but love never subsides into friendship.
Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven!