Not suffering, but faint heart, is worst of woes.

To have greatly dreamed precludes low ends.

Whoever can endure unmixed delight, whoever can tolerate music and painting and poetry all in one, whoever wishes to be rid of thought and to let the busy anvils of the brain be silent for a time, let him read in the "Faery Queen."

What men call luck Is the prerogative of valiant souls, The fealty life pays its rightful kings.

The story of any one man's real experience finds its startling parallel in that of every one of us.

I have always been of the mind that in a democracy manners are the only effective weapons against the bowie-knife.

The nunneries of silent nooks, the murmured longing of the wood.