Every great and original writer$$$ in proportion as he is great and original$$$ must himself create the taste by which he is to be relished.

...books are yours$$$ <br>Within whose silent chambers treasure lies <br>Preserved from age to age; more precious far <br>Than that accumulated store of gold <br>And orient gems$$$ which$$$ for a day of need$$$ <br>The Sultan hides deep in ancestral tombs. <br>These hoards of truth you can unlock at will:

The good die first$$$ and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust$$$ burn to the socket.

Love betters what is best.

There is a comfort in the strength of love; 'Twill make a thing endurable$$$ which else would overset the brain$$$ or break the heart.

Someone has to die in order that the rest of us should value life more.

Human beings have neither kindness$$$ nor faith$$$ nor charity beyond what serves to increase the pleasure of the moment.

I enjoy the spring more than the autumn now. One does$$$ I think$$$ as one gets older.

Better was it to go unknown and leave behind you an arch$$$ then to burn like a meteor and leave no dust.

I see you everywhere$$$ in the stars$$$ in the river$$$ to me you're everything that exists; the reality of everything.