Enemies publish themselves. They declare war. The friend never declares his love.

Some poems are for holidays only. They are polished and sweet, but it is the sweetness of sugar, and not such as toil gives to sour bread. The breath with which the poet utters his verse must be that by which he lives.

There is no rule more invariable than that we are paid for our suspicions by finding what we suspect.

Must the citizen ever for a moment, or in the least degree, resigns his conscience to the legislator? Why has every man a conscience then? I think that we should be men first, and subjects afterward.

Surely one may as profitably be soaked in the juices of a swamp for one day as pick his way dry-shod over sand. Cold and damp ? are they not as rich experience as warmth and dryness?

I am not responsible for the successful working of the machinery of society.

Most people dread finding out when they come to die that they have never really lived.