When Christ ascended Triumphantly from star to star He left the gates of Heaven ajar.

The secret studies of an author are the sunken piers upon which is to rest the bridge of his fame, spanning the dark waters of oblivion. They are out of sight, but without them no superstructure can stand secure.

He that respects himself is safe from others. He wears a coat of mail that none can pierce.

When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.

Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was wasted; If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters, returning Back to their springs, like the rain, shall fill them full of refreshment; That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain.

There is no death! What seems so is transition; this life of mortal breath is but a suburb of the life elysian, whose portal we call Death.

All sense of hearing and of sight enfold in the serene delight and quietude of sleep.