Much of our waking experience is but a dream in the daylight.

It is pleasant to have a kind word now and then when one is not near enough to have a kind glance or a hearty shake by the hand.

It is hard to believe long together that anything is "worth while," unless there is some eye to kindle in common with our own, some brief word uttered now and then to imply that what is infinitely precious to us is precious alike to another mind.

Consequences are unpitying.

There is a sort of human paste that when it comes near the fire of enthusiasm is only baked into harder shape.

What deep and worthy love is so, whether of woman or child, or art or music. Our caresses, our tender words, our still rapture under the influence of autumn sunsets, or pillared vistas, or calm majestic statues, or Beethoven symphonies all bring with them the consciousness that they are mere waves and ripples in an unfathomable ocean of love and beauty; our emotion in its keenest moment passes from expression into silence, our love at its highest flood rushes beyond its object and loses itself in the sense of divine mystery.

I've always felt that your belongings have never been on a level with you.