I love you for the part of me that you bring out.

Oh, a day in the city-square, there is no such pleasure in life!

I love thee freely, as men strive for right. I love thee purely, as they turn from praise. I love thee with the passion put to use

"There is no God," the foolish saith, But none, "There is no sorrow." And nature oft the cry of faith In bitter need will borrow: Eyes which the preacher could not school, By wayside graves are raised; And lips say, "God be pitiful," Who ne'er said, "God be praised."

Souls are gregarious in a sense, but no soul touches another, as a general rule.

Much of the possibility of being cheerful comes from the faculty of throwing oneself beyond oneself.

Books are men of higher stature.