... indefinite visions of ambition are weak against the ease of doing what is habitual or beguilingly agreeable.

People who write finely must not expect to be left in repose; they will be molested with thanks, at least.

If the past is not to bind us, where can duty lie? We should have no law but the inclination of the moment.

What should I do—how should I act now, this very day . . . What she would resolve to do that day did not yet seem quite clear, but something that she could achieve stirred her as with an approaching murmur which would soon gather distinctness.

Fine art, poetry, that kind of thing, elevates a nation.

Joy is the best of wine.

O may I join the choir invisible of those immortal dead who live again in minds made better by their presence; live in pulses stirred to generosity, in deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn for miserable aims that end with self, in thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars, and with their mild persistence urge men's search to vaster issues.