Nothing but a speck we seem In the waste of waters round, Floating, floating like a dream, Outward bound.

Nothing but a speck we seem In the waste of waters round, Floating, floating like a dream, Outward bound.

It is not work that kills, but "worry."

Happiness! Can any human being undertake to define it for another?

It is not the smallest use to try to make people good, unless you try at the same time - and they feel that you are trying - to make them happy. And you rarely can make another happy, unless you are happy yourself.

The world! It is a word capable of as diverse interpretations or misinterpretations as the thing itself - a thing by various people supposed to belong to heaven, man, or the devil, or alternatively to all three.

absence ... smothers into decay a rootless fancy but often nourishes the least seed of a true affection into full-flowering love.