"I only know him, as you do, to be a poet." "Poet, madman, or lover--all three should be one and the same thing," muttered the Prince, clenching and unclenching that strong right hand of his on which sparkled a diamond like a star.

"I have often wondered if poets feel what they write--whether Swinburne, for instance, ever felt the weight of a dead cold thing within him HERE," slightly touching the region of his heart, "and realized that he had to drag that corpse of unburied love with him everywhere--even to the grave, and beyond--O God!--beyond the grave!" I touched him gently on the arm.
I was full of pity for him--his despair was so bitter and keen.
"Prince Ivan," I said, "you are excited and overwrought.

Zara meant no slight to you in leaving the room before your song was finished.

I am quite sure of that.

She is kindness itself--her nature is all sweetness and gentleness.