Death is the king of this world: 'Tis his park where he breeds life to feed him. Cries of pain are music for his banquet.

It is impossible, to me at least, to be poetical in cold weather.

A patronizing disposition always has its meaner side.

What greater thing is there for two human souls than to feel that they are joined - to strengthen each other - to be at one with each other in silent unspeakable memories.

Our dead are never dead to us, until we have forgotten them.

We have no right to come forward and urge wider changes for good, until we have tried to alter the evils which lie under our own hands.

A friend is one to whom one may pour out the contents of one's heart, chaff and grain together, knowing that gentle hands will take and sift it, keep what is worth keeping, and with a breath of kindness, blow the rest away.