The course of my long life hath reached at last in fragile bark over a tempestuous sea the common harbor, where must rendered be account for all the actions of the past.
In ourselves are triumph and defeat.
Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked up a horseshoe.
If we could read the secret history of our enemies.
Nothing with God can be accidental.
We have not wings we cannot soar; but, we have feet to scale and climb, by slow degrees, by more and more, the cloudy summits of our time.