It sounded like a welcome already overshadowed with the coming farewell.

"The noble hart that harbours vertuous thought And is with childe of glorious great intent, Can never rest, until it forth have brought Th' eternall brood of glorie excellent."

Though of a noble family, he was poor, and prided himself upon the independence that poverty gives; for what will not a man pride himself upon, when he cannot get rid of it?

Thou goest thine, and I go mine— Many ways we wend; Many days, and many ways, Ending in one end.

but when you come to live every day in the midst of absurdity, it is far less easy to behave respectfully to it.

But, alas! it is like trying to reconstruct a forest out of broken branches and withered leaves.

My representation of it must resemble a translation from a rich and powerful language, capable of embodying the thoughts of a splendidly developed people, into the meagre and half-articulate speech of a savage tribe.

His mind had never yet been filled with an absorbing passion; but it lay like a still twilight open to any wind, whether the low breath that wafts but odours, or the storm that bows the great trees till they strain and creak.

What distressed me most—more even than my own folly—was the perplexing question, How can beauty and ugliness dwell so near?