The last refuge of intolerance is in not tolerating the intolerant.

O the anguish of the thought that we can never atone to our dead for the stinted affection we gave them.

Only in the agony of parting do we look into the depths of love.

I think there are stores laid up in our human nature that our understandings can make no complete inventory of.

The years seem to rush by now, and I think of death as a fast approaching end of a journey-double and treble reason for loving as well as working while it is day.

Men and women make sad mistakes about their own symptoms, taking their vague uneasy longings, sometimes for genius, sometimes for religion, and oftener still for a mighty love.

That quiet mutual gaze of a trusting husband and wife is like the first moment of rest or refuge from a great weariness or a great danger-not to be interfered with by speech or action which would distract the sensations from the fresh enjoyment of repose.