Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is godlike.

The atmosphere breathes rest and comfort, and the many chambers seem full of welcomes.

Many people do not allow their principles to take root, but pull them up every now and then, as children do the flowers they have planted, to see if they are growing.

Love makes its record in deeper colors as we grow out of childhood into manhood; as the Emperors signed their names in green ink when under age, but when of age, in purple.

Our blossoms of passion, gay and luxuriant flowers, are bright and full of fragrance, but they beguile us and lead us astray, and their odor is deadly.

The soul never grows old.

In this world a man must either be anvil or hammer.