The soft whispers of the God in man.
The future... seems to me no unified dream but a mince pie, long in the baking, never quite done
If we did but know how little some enjoy of the great things that they possess, there would not be much envy in the world.
Satire recoils whenever charged too high; round your own fame the fatal splinters fly.
A death-bed's a detector of the heart.
The bell strikes One. We take no note of time But from its loss. To give it then a tongue Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke, I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, It is the knell of my departed hours.