The golden moments in the stream of life rush past us, and we see nothing but sand; the angels come to visit us, and we only know them when they are gone.

There is much pain that is quite noiseless; and vibrations that make human agonies are often a mere whisper in the roar of hurrying existence. There are glances of hatred that stab and raise no cry of murder; robberies that leave man or woman for ever beggared of peace and joy, yet kept secret by the sufferer --committed to no sound except that of low moans in the night, seen in no writing except that made on the face by the slow months of suppressed anguish and early morning tears. Many an inherited sorrow that has marred a life has been breathed into no human ear.

But what we call our despair is often only the painful eagerness of unfed hope.

The first condition of human goodness is something to love; the second, something to reverence.

A toddling little girl is a centre of common feeling which makes the most dissimilar people understand each other.

To an old memory like mine the present days are but as a little water poured on the deep.

There's folks 'ud hold a sieve under the pump and expect to carry away the water.