I fear that we are such gods or demigods only as fauns and satyrs, the divine allied to beasts, the creatures of appetite, and that, to some extent, our very life is our disgrace.

New earths, new themes expect us.

How shall we account for our pursuits, if they are original? We get the language with which to describe our various lives out of acommon mint.

Moral reform is the effort to throw off sleep.

The man whose horse trots a mile in a minute does not carry the most important messages.

Only nature has a right to grieve perpetually, for she only is innocent. Soon the ice will melt, and the blackbirds sing along the river which he frequented, as pleasantly as ever. The same everlasting serenity will appear in this face of God, and we will not be sorrowful, if he is not.

I would stand upon facts.