We are nothing; less than nothing, and dreams. We are only what might have been.

Is the world all grown up? Is childhood dead? Or is there not in the bosom of the wisest and the best some of the child's heart left, to respond to its earliest enchantments?

When true hearts lie wither'd And fond ones are flown, Oh, who would inhabit This bleak world alone?

The red-letter days, now become, to all intents and purposes, dead-letter days.

Be not frightened at the hard words "imposition," "imposture;" give and ask no questions. Cast thy bread upon the waters. Some have, unawares, entertained angels.

Shall I ask the brave soldier who fights by my side In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree?

In some respects the better a book is, the less it demands from the binding.