People who write finely must not expect to be left in repose; they will be molested with thanks, at least.

We all remember epochs in our experience when some dear expectation dies, or some new motive is born.

Mysterious haunts of echoes old and far, The voice divine of human loyalty.

Vague memories hang about the mind like cobwebs.

There is one order of beauty which seems made to turn heads. It is a beauty like that of kittens, or very small downy ducks making gentle rippling noises with their soft bills, or babies just beginning to toddle.

If we had a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow and the squirrel's heart beat, and we should die of that roar which lies on the other side of silence.

The egoism which enters into our theories does not affect their sincerity; rather, the more our egoism is satisfied, the more robust is our belief.