I love words; they are the quoits, the bows, the staves that furnish the gymnasium of the mind.

Nature repairs her ravages, but not all. The uptorn trees are not rooted again; the parted hills are left scarred; if there is a new growth, the trees are not the same as the old, and the hills underneath their green vesture bear the marks of the past rending. To the eyes that have dwelt on the past, there is no thorough repair.

It is necessary to me, not simply to be but to utter, and I require utterance of my friends.

The bow always strung ... will not do.

to my thinking, it is more pitiable to bore than to be bored.

Scepticismcan never be thoroughly applied, else life would come to a standstill.

To think of the part one little woman can play in the life of a man, so that to renounce her may be a very good imitation of heroism, and to win her may be a discipline.