“Even for those to whom life and death are equal jests. There are some things that are still held in respect.”

The rudiment of verse may, possibly, be found in the spondee.

I was never really insane except upon occasions when my heart was touched.

Man’s real life is happy, chiefly because he is ever expecting that it soon will be so.

I am a writer. Therefore, I am not sane.

The believer is happy. The doubter is wise.

I have great faith in fools – self-confidence my friends will call it.

If you wish to forget anything on the spot, make a note that this thing is to be remembered.

Convinced myself, I seek not to convince.

It is by no means an irrational fancy that, in a future existence, we shall look upon what we think our present existence, as a dream.

The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?

There is an eloquence in true enthusiasm.

That pleasure which is at once the most pure, the most elevating and the most intense, is derived, I maintain, from the contemplation of the beautiful.

Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence.

There is no exquisite beauty without some strangeness in the proportion.

The past is a pebble in my shoe.

Years of love have been forgot, In the hatred of a minute.

If death comes to claim us, my soul will wander until we meet again.

She greets death with a curtsy.

And when our dreams died my life could finally begin.

It might sound cliche but with the dying of another day, I’m close to walking away as my mind is leading me astray.

Sometimes I lay down at night and wonder if it’s time to lay down my life.

When you least expect it, death creeps in and reminds you of life.

We are survivors we glisten in the sun for all the nights I died alone I did not know another woman carried my song and it is beautiful now look what we have become.

Friendships that die are like a lost art.