Our dead are never dead to us, until we have forgotten them.
This is a puzzling world, and Old Harry's got a finger in it.
To an old memory like mine the present days are but as a little water poured on the deep.
There are men whose presence infuses trust and reverence.
The wrong that rouses our angry passions finds only a medium in us; it passes through us like a vibration, and we inflict what we have suffered.
I love words; they are the quoits, the bows, the staves that furnish the gymnasium of the mind.