“Whether that lady's gentle mind, No longer with the form combinedWhich scattered love, as stars do light, Found sadness where it left delight,I dare not guess; but in this lifeOf error, ignorance, and strife,Where nothing is, but all things seem,And we the shadows of the dream,It is a modest creed, and yetPleasant if one considers it,To own that death itself must be,Like all the rest, a mockery.That garden sweet, that lady fair,And all sweet shapes and odors there,In truth have never passed away:'Tis we, 'tis ours, are changed; not they.For love, and beauty, and delight, There is no death or change: their mightExceeds our organs, which endureNo light, being themselves obscure.(--Conclusion, Autumn - A Dirge)”

“Somebody, it seemed, gave it out that I loved ladies; and then everybody presented me their ladies (or the ladies presented themselves) to be embraced, that is to have their necks kissed...The French ladies had a thousand other ways of rendering themselves agreeable by their various attentions and civilities, and their sensible conversation. Tis a delightful people to live with.”

“But say what you will, 'tis better to be left than never to have been loved. To pass our youth in dull indifference, to refuse the sweets of life because they once must leave us, is as preposterous as to wish to have been born old, because we one day must be old.”

“For love and beauty and delight, there is no death nor change.”

“Cool morning shadows sadly shift across the floorEach time we say goodbye it’s harder than beforeEven after all the pain of parting still we findThat we must mourn the death of the dreams we leave behindAs I turn my back on all that means the most to meThe sounds and smells, the light that dances on the seaThe greatest gamble is to act on the beliefThat only the slave who leaves it all is truly freeThe sacrifice that we both lay before His feetA thousand moments that belonged to usThat now will never beBy faith we hold a better dream inside our heartsA time when our family will never have to be apartTill then we struggle with just what it really meansAnd we will mourn the death of our beautiful dreamsMourn the death of our beautiful dreams”

“tis true, 'tis pity, and 'tis pity, 'tis true.' what delightful things we might do were it not for Mrs. Harmon Andrews!”