Piety is indifferent whether she enters at the eye or at the ear. There is none of the senses at which she does not knock one day or other. The Puritans forgot this, and thrust Beauty out of the meeting-house and slammed the door in her face.

The time is ripe, and rotten-ripe, for change... [Truth's] mirror is turned forward, to reflect The promise of the future, not the past.

And the poorest twig on the elm-tree was ridged inch deep with pearl.

May is a pious fraud of the almanac.

Compromise makes a good umbrella, but a poor roof.

History is clarified experience.

The eye is the notebook of the poet.