What do we live for, if not to make life less difficult for each other?

O may I join the choir invisible of those immortal dead who live again in minds made better by their presence; live in pulses stirred to generosity, in deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn for miserable aims that end with self, in thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars, and with their mild persistence urge men's search to vaster issues.

Vanity is as ill at ease under indifference as tenderness is under a love which it cannot return.

Those only can thoroughly feel the meaning of death who know what is perfect love.

Whether happiness may come or not, one should try and prepare one's self to do without it.

Among all forms of mistake, prophecy is the most gratuitous.

... it is because sympathy is but a living again through our own past in a new form, that confession often prompts a response of confession.