When the dust of death has choked a great man's voice, the common words he said turn oracles, the common thoughts he yoked like horses draw like griffins.

Two human loves make one divine.

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

Life, struck sharp on death, Makes awful lightning.

I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless; That only men incredulous of despair, half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air beat upward to god's throne in loud access of shrieking and reproach

Art is much, but love is more.

Let us be content to work To do the things we can, and not presume To fret because it's little.