The only secret people keep is immortality.

Had we less to say to those we love, perhaps we should say it oftener.

The dearest ones of time, the strongest friends of the soul--BOOKS.

We meet no Stranger, but Ourself.

When he tells us about his Father, we distrust him. When he shows us his Home, we turn away, but when he confides to us that he is acquainted with grief, we listen, for that also is an acquaintance of our own.

If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only ways I know it. Is there any other way?

There is a pain so utter, it swallows being up; The covers the abyss with a trance So memory can step around, across, upon it.