The soul is a temple; and God is silently building it by night and by day. Precious thoughts are building it; disinterested love is building it; all-penetrating faith is building it.

Conscience is the frame of character, and love is the covering for it.

It is a man dying with his harness on that angels love to escort upward.

A love of flowers would beget early rising, industry, habits of close observation, and of reading. It would incline the mind to notice natural phenomena, and to reason upon them. It would occupy the mind with pure thoughts, and inspire a sweet and gentle enthusiasm; maintain simplicity of taste; and ... unfold in the heart an enlarged, unstraightened, ardent piety.

A book is a garden, an orchard, a storehouse, a party, a mentor, a teacher, a guidepost, a counsellor.

Anxiety in human life is what squeaking and grinding are in machinery that is not oiled. In life, trust is the oil.

Only have enough of little virtues and common fidelities, and you need not mourn because you are neither a hero nor a saint.