There are some cases in which the sense of injury breeds not the will to inflict injuries and climb over them as a ladder, but a hatred of all injury.

I think I am quite wicked with roses. I like to gather them, and smell them till they have no scent left.

Surely it is not true blessedness to be free of sorrow while there is sorrow and sin in the world. Sorrow is a part of love and love does not seek to throw it off.

Mysterious haunts of echoes old and far, The voice divine of human loyalty.

Blessed is the influence of one true, loving human soul on another.

For character too is a process and an unfolding. . . among our valued friends is there not someone or other who is a little too self confident and disdainful. . . .

Family likeness has often a deep sadness in it.