...the heart has no tears to give,--it drops only blood, bleeding itself away in silence.

Death! Strange that there should be such a word, and such a thing, and we ever forget it; that one should be living, warm and beautiful, full of hopes, desires and wants, one day, and the next be gone, utterly gone, and forever!

What a fool is he who locks his door to keep out spirits, who has in his own bosom a spirit he dares not meet alone; whose voice, smothered far down, and piled over with mountains of earthliness, is yet like the forewarning trumpet of doom!

In all ranks of life the human heart yearns for the beautiful; and the beautiful things that God makes are his gift to all alike.

No ornament of a house can compare with books; they are constant company in a room, even when you are not reading them.

One part of the science of living is to learn just what our own responsibility is, and to let other people's alone.

there is no independence and pertinacity of opinion like that of these seemingly soft, quiet creatures, whom it is so easy to silence, and so difficult to convince.