“The busy bee has no time for sorrow.”

When a sinister person means to be your enemy, they always start by trying to become your friend

The crow wished everything was black, the Owl, that everything was white.

A man can’t soar too high, when he flies with his own wings.

Love to faults is always blind, always is to joy inclined. Lawless, winged, and unconfined, and breaks all chains from every mind.

If the Sun and Moon should ever doubt, they’d immediately go out.

I was walking among the fires of Hell, delighted with the enjoyments of Genius; which to Angels look like torment and insanity.

The fool who persists in his folly will become wise.

Some are born to sweet delight, Some are born to endless night.

He who kisses joy as it flies by will live in eternity’s sunrise.

Everything possible to be believed is an image of truth.

The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.

The moon, like a flower in heaven’s high bower, with silent delight sits and smiles on the night.

Thy friendship oft has made my heart to ache: do be my enemy for friendship’s sake.

The imagination is not a state: it is the human existence itself.

The eagle never lost so much time as when he submitted to learn of the crow

Fiery the Angels rose, & as they rose deep thunder roll’d Around their shores, indignant burning with the fires of Orc.

People who are prone to sadness are more likely to pick up a pen.

You said my sadness was like the sun, beautiful from a distance but it hurt you too much to come closer.

There are days when the melancholy settles on you like a sudden change in weather. The kind of sadness that is intangible. Like the presence of an ache where you can’t pinpoint exactly where it hurts, you just know it does.

Sadness and fear and hate, how they well up in the heart and mind, whenever one opens pages of these messengers of doom.

I don’t think all writers are sad, she said. I think it’s the other way around- all sad people write.

A Betrayal I cannot undo what I have done; I can’t un-sing a song that’s sung. And the saddest thing about my regret- I can’t forgive me, and you can’t forget.

And I sighed and wept for what could not be–and for all that could have been.

What is she like? I was told – she is a melancholy soul.