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

We could never have loved the earth so well if we had had no childhood in it.

That is the bitterest of all,--to wear the yoke of our own wrong-doing.

In the first moments when we come away from the presence of death, every other relation to the living is merged, to our feeling, in the great relation of a common nature and a common destiny.

...Though there's reasons in things as nobody knows on---- that's pretty much what I've made out; yet some folks are so wise they'll find you fifty reasons straight off, and all the while the real reason's winking at 'em in the corner, and they niver see't.

What novelty is worth that sweet monotony where everything is known, and loved because it is known?

Awful Night! Ancestral mystery of mysteries.