The temple of art is built in words.

No genuine observer can decide otherwise than that the homes of a nation are the bulwarks of personal and national safety and thrift.

The cry of the soul is for freedom. It longs for liberty, from the date of its first conscious moments.

There are crowds who trample a flower into the dust without thinking once that they have one of the sweetest thoughts of God under their heel.

Doubtless the world is wicked enough; but it will not be improved by the extension of a spirit which self-righteously sees more to reform outside of itself than in itself.

Blessed is that man who knows his own distaff and has found his own spindle.

Every man who strikes blows for power, for influence, for institutions, for the right, must be just as good an anvil as he is a hammer.