Death, after all, is the common expectation from birth. Neither heroes nor cowards can escape it.

Youth is no less vulnerable, by the very quality it has of making the heart ache that beholds and has lost it.

Every spring is the only spring, a perpetual astonishment.

Despair is deadly sin, but worse, it is mortal folly.

To have faith in Divine protection is good, but even beter if backed by the pratical assistance heaven has a right to expect from sensible mortals.

Here I begin to know that blessedness is what can be snatched out the passing day and put away to think of afterwards.

One century's saint is the next century's heretic ... and one century's heretic is the next century's saint. It is as well to think long and calmly before affixing either name to any man.