All things journey: sun and moon, Morning, noon, and afternoon, Night and all her stars; 'Twixt the east and western bars Round they journey, Come and go! We go with them!

The desire to conquer is itself a sort of subjection.

Worldly faces never look so worldly as at a funeral.

The select natures who pant after the ideal, and find nothing in pantaloons or petticoats great enough to command their reverence and love, are curiously in unison with the narrowest and pettiest.

You know nothing about Hope, that immortal, delicious maiden forever courted forever propitious, whom fools have called deceitful, as if it were Hope that carried the cup of disappointment, whereas it is her deadly enemy, Certainty, whom she only es

The memory has as many moods as the temper, and shifts its scenery like a diorama.

The world is full of hopeful analogies and handsome, dubious eggs, called possibilities.