It is with a kind of fear that I begin to write the history of my life.

The hands of those I meet are dumbly eloquent to me. The touch of some hands is an impertinence. I have met people so empty of joy, that when I clasped their frosty finger-tips, it seemed as if I were shaking hands with a northeast storm. Others there are whose hands have sunbeams in them, so that their grasp warms my heart. It may be only the clinging touch of a child's hand; but there is as much potential sunshine in it for me as there is in a loving glance for others. A hearty handshake or a friendly letter gives me genuine pleasure.

I find that fact and fancy look alike across the years that link the past with the present.

Better to be blind and see with your heart, than to have two good eyes and see nothing.

...our enjoyment of the great works of literature depends more upon the depth of our sympathy than upon our understanding.

If the blind put their hands in God's, they find their way more surely than those who see but have not faith or purpose.

I cannot remember how I felt when the light went out of my eyes. I suppose I felt it was always night and perhaps I wondered why the day did not come.