It is difficult to know at what moment love begins; it is less difficult to know that it has begun.

How like they are to human things!

If we could read the secret history of our enemies we should find in each man's life sorrow and suffering enough to disarm all hostility.

The air is full of farewells to the dying. And mournings for the dead.

The setting of a great hope is like the setting of the sun. The brightness of our life is gone.

Not chance of birth or place has made us friends, Being oftentimes of different tongues and nations, But the endeavor for the selfsame ends, With the same hopes, and fears, and aspirations.

Art is the child of nature in whom we trace the features of the mothers face.