Affliction comes to us all, not to make us sad, but sober; not to make us sorry, but to make us wise; not to make us despondent, but by its darkness to refresh us as the night refreshes the day; not to impoverish, but to enrich us
The one great poem of New England is her Sunday.
Mountains of gold would not seduce some men, yet flattery would break them down.
Death? Translated into the heavenly tongue, that word means life!
To array a man's will against his sickness is the supreme art of medicine.
A man's true estate of power and riches is to be in himself; not in his dwelling or position or external relations, but in his own essential character.