The man, most man, works best for men: and, if most man indeed, he gets his manhood plainest from his soul.
Books are men of higher stature.
Large, musing eyes, neither joyous nor sorry.
I work with patience, which is almost power.
World's use is cold, world's love is vain, world's cruelty is bitter bane; but is not the fruit of pain.
My future will not copy my fair past, I wrote that once. And, thinking at my side my ministering life-angel justified the word by his appealing look upcast to the white throne of God.