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

What we call Life is a condition of the soul. And the soul must improve in happiness and wisdom, except by its own fault. These tears in our eyes, these faintings of the flesh, will not hinder such improvement.

What is art but the life upon the larger scale, the higher. When, graduating up in a spiral line of still expanding and ascending gyres, it pushes toward the intense significance of all things, hungry for the infinite?

The beautiful seems right by force of beauty and the feeble wrong because of weakness.

Foolishness and criticism are so apt, do so naturally go together!

Who so loves believes the impossible.

He lives most life whoever breathes most air.