the other will be estranged. It is commonly the imagination which is wounded first, rather than the heart,—it is so much the more sensitive.
Comparatively, we can excuse any offense
against the heart, but not against the imagination.
The imagination knows—nothing escapes its
glance from out its eyrie—and it controls the
breast 
My heart may still yearn toward the
valley, but my imagination will not permit me
to jump off the precipice that debars me from it,
for it is wounded, wounded, its wings are clipped
and it can not fly even descendingly. Our
"blundering hearts!" some poet says The
imagination never forgets; it is a re-membering. It
is not foundationless, but most reasonable, and it
alone uses all the knowledge of the intellect.
Love is the profoundest of secrets Divulged,
even to the beloved, it is no longer Love. As if it
were merely I that loved you. When love ceases,
then it is divulged.
In our intercourse with one we love, we wish to have answered those questions at the end of which we do not raise our voice; against which we put no interrogation-mark,—answered with the same unfailing, universal aim toward every point of the compass.
I require that thou knowest everything without being told anything. I parted from my beloved because there was one thing which I had to tell her. She questioned me. She should have known all by sympathy. That I had to tell it her was the difference between us,—the misunderstanding.
A lover never hears anything that is told, for
that is commonly either false or stale; but he
hears things taking place, as the sentinels heard
