Love does not analyze its object.

Every man is the builder of a temple, called his body, to the god he worships, after a style purely his own, nor can he get off by hammering marble instead. We are all sculptors and painters, and our material is our own flesh and blood and bones. Any nobleness begins at once to refine a man's features, any meanness or sensuality to imbrute them.

An early-morning walk is a blessing for the whole day.

To the virtuous man, the universe is the only sanctum sanctorum, and the penetralia of the temple are the broad noon of his existence.

The devil finds work for idle hands.

That we have but little faith is not sad, but that we have little faithfulness. By faithfulness faith is earned.

None can be an impartial or wise observer of human life but from the vantage ground of what we should call voluntary poverty.