Curiosity Is Its Own Suicide.

The Past Is Perpetual Youth To The Heart.

The Wind Has A Language, I Would I Could Learn! Sometimes 'tis Soothing, And Sometimes 'tis Stern, Sometimes It Comes Like A Low Sweet Song, And All Things Grow Calm, As The Sound Floats Along, And The Forest Is Lull'd By The Dreamy Strain, And Slumber Sinks Down On The Wandering Main, And Its Crystal Arms Are Folded In Rest, And The Tall Ship Sleeps On Its Heaving Breast.

There Are Words To Paint The Misery Of Love, But None To Paint Its Happiness.

Travel Is As Much A Passion As Ambition Or Love.

There Is No Wretchedness Like Self-reproach.