We have hearts within, Warm, live, improvident, indecent hearts.

World's use is cold, world's love is vain, world's cruelty is bitter bane; but is not the fruit of pain.

No man can be called friendless who has God and the companionship of good books.

She has seen the mystery hid Under Egypt's pyramid: By those eyelids pale and close Now she knows what Rhamses knows.

Books are men of higher stature, and the only men that speak aloud for future times to hear.

What monster have we here? A great Deed at this hour of day? A great just deed - and not for pay? Absurd - or insincere?

But since he had The genius to be loved, why let him have The justice to be honoured in his grave.