“No man knows till he experiences it, what it is like to feel his own life-blood drawn away into the woman he loves.”

A brave man’s hand can speak for itself, it does not even need a woman’s love to hear its music.

She is one of God’s women fashioned by His own hand to show us men and other women that there is a heaven where we can enter, and that its light can be here on earth.

Nature in one of her beneficent moods has ordained that even death has some antidote to its own terrors.

Suddenly, I became conscious of the fact that the driver was in the act of pulling up the horses in the courtyard of a vast ruined castle, from whose tall black windows came no ray of light, and whose broken battlements showed a jagged line against the sky.

You cannot guess or measure the terrible endless longing to see the gates opened, and to be able to join the white figures within.

She was young and very beautiful, but pale, like the grey pallor of death.

Denn die Todten reiten Schnell. (For the dead travel fast.)

How good and thoughtful he is; the world seems full of good men–even if there are monsters in it.

Once again…welcome to my house. Come freely. Go safely; and leave something of the happiness you bring.

And so we remained till the red of the dawn began to fall through the snow gloom. I was desolate and afraid, and full of woe and terror. But when that beautiful sun began to climb the horizon life was to me again.

Despair has its own calms.

I saw the Count lying within the box upon the earth, some of which the rude falling from the cart had scattered over him. He was deathly pale, just like a waxen image, and the red eyes glared with the horrible vindictive look which I knew so well.

Our toil must be in silence, and our efforts all in secret; for this enlightened age, when men believe not even what they see, the doubting of wise men would be his greatest strength.

Above the care of Nature and of State, Suspended in the noon of Night we wait, All slumber nursing, to make sweet and pure, While secret Nature, weaving works the cure. We are the handmaids of the hollow night,

Before I left the castle I so fixed its entrances that never more can the Count enter there Undead.

You yourself never loved; you never love! Yes, I too can love; you yourselves can tell it from the past. Is it not so?

At night, when the curtains are drawn and the fire flickers, my books attain a collective dignity.

The mind is like a richly woven tapestry in which the colors are distilled from the experiences of the senses, and the design drawn from the convolutions of the intellect.

Ah, we men and women are like ropes drawn tight with strain that pull us in different directions.

Better than any argument is to rise at dawn and pick dew-wet red berries in a cup.

I started reading about people of great accomplishment… and it dawned on me suddenly that the person who has the most to do with what happens in your life is you.

There is a line drawn by God, a boundary where by virtue of his own very presence Satan’s writ does not run. Let God but occupy all the space himself, and what room is left for the evil one?

He knew them only ‘in Braille’ – the curtains were never drawn back in the rooms in Oxford where he met those boys. It was the most sordid life you can imagine. And he was bleating about love and dragging the fair name of Mr. Plato into the trial – after a life like that?

The nearer the dawn the darker the night.