Skin white as snow, lips red as blood, and hair black as ebony.

Jacob wrote that the true poet 'is like a man who is happy anywhere, in endless measure, if he is allowed to look at leaves and grass, to see the sun rise and set. The false poet travels abroad in strange countries and hopes to be uplifted by the mountains of Switzerland, the sky and sea of Italy. He comes to them and is dissatisfied. He is not as happy as the man who stays at home and sees the apple trees flower in spring, and hears the small birds singing among the branches

The Lord God had created all animals, and had chosen out the wolf to be his dog.

Chemistry is a gibberish of Latin and German; but in Leibig's hands it becomes a powerful language.

Some men are born to good luck: all they do or try to do comes right—all that falls to them is so much gain—all their geese are swans—all their cards are trumps—toss them which way you will, they will always, like poor puss, alight upon their legs, and only move on so much the faster. The world may very likely not always think of them as they think of themselves, but what care they for the world? what can it know about the matter?

Evil is also not anything small or close to home, and not the worst; otherwise one could grow accustomed to it.

Skin white as snow, lips red as blood, and hair black as ebony.