There's nothing in this world so sweet as love. And next to love the sweetest thing is hate.

Out of the bosom of the Air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, Over the woodlands brown and bare, Over the harvest-fields forsaken, Silent, and soft, and slow Descends the snow.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each tomorrow Find us farther than today.

And in the wreck of noble lives Something immortal still survives.

People demand freedom only when they have no power.

Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.

Every dew-drop and rain-drop had a whole heaven within it.