Nobody ever sees truth except in fragments.

Work is not a curse, but drudgery is.

Mirth is the sweet wine of human life. It should be offered sparkling with zestful life unto God.

The one great poem of New England is her Sunday.

If a man harbors any sort of fear, it percolates through all his thinking, damages his personality, makes him landlord to a ghost.

Intelligence increases mere physical ability one half. The use of the head abridges the labor of the hands.

What a mother sings to the cradle goes all the way down to the coffin.