We are all architects of faith, ever living in these walls of time.

Fear is the virtue of slaves; but the heart that loveth is willing.

Gone are the living, but the dead remain, And not neglected; for a hand unseen, Scattering its bounty like a summer rain, Still keeps their graves and their remembrance green.

I dislike an eye that twinkles like a star. Those only are beautiful which, like the planets, have a steady lambent light, are luminous, but not sparkling.

To say the least, a town life makes one more tolerant and liberal in one's judgment of others.

Let the dead Past bury its dead!

Thought takes man out of servitude, into freedom.