It is a sad weakness in us, after all, that the thought of a man's death hallows him anew to us; as if life were not sacred too.

Your dunce who can't do his sums always has a taste for the infinite.

I think what we call the dullness of things is a disease in ourselves. Else how could anyone find an intense interest in life? And many do.

To think of the part one little woman can play in the life of a man, so that to renounce her may be a very good imitation of heroism, and to win her may be a discipline.

I love words; they are the quoits, the bows, the staves that furnish the gymnasium of the mind.

We mortals, men and women, devour many a disappointment between breakfast and dinner-time; keep back the tears and look a little pale about the lips, and in answer to inquiries say, "Oh, nothing!" Pride helps; and pride is not a bad thing when it only urges us to hide our hurts— not to hurt others.

There is no hour that has not its births of gladness and despair, no morning brightness that does not bring new sickness to desolation as well as new forces to genius and love. There are so many of us, and our lots are so different, what wonder that Nature's mood is often in harsh contrast with the great crisis of our lives?