Quotes from William Wetmore Story

The shadows of twilight grow, And the tiger's ancient fierceness In my veins begins to flow.

Oh! faint delicious spring-time violet, Thine odor like a key, Turns noiselessly in memory's wards to let A thought of sorrow free.

Of every noble work the silent part is best; of all expression, that which cannot be expressed.

But the gray and the cold are haunted by a beauty akin to pain, by a sense of a something wanted that never will come again.