Life is the gift of God, and is divine.

It is true, that it is not at all necessary to love many books, in order to love them much.

The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight.

If we could read the secret history of our enemies.

In old age our bodies are worn-out instruments, on which the soul tries in vain to play the melodies of youth. But because the instrument has lost its strings, or is out of tune, it does not follow that the musician has lost his skill.

As a fond mother, when the day is o'er, Leads by the hand her little child to bed, Half willing, half reluctant to be led, And leave his broken playthings on the floor. Still gazing at them through the open door, Nor wholly reassured and comforted By promises of others in their stead Which, the more splendid, may not please him more; So Nature deals with us, and takes away Our playthings one by one, and by the hand Leads us to rest so gently, that we go Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay, Being too full of sleep to understand How far the unknown transcends the what we know.

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