Books are the bees which carry the quickening pollen from one to another mind.

Ah, in this world, where every guiding thread Ends suddenly in the one sure centre, death, The visionary hand of Might-have-been Alone can fill Desire's cup to the brim!

Each day the world is born anew for him who takes it rightly.

There is no bore we dread being left alone with so much as our own minds.

The wisest man could ask no more of fate Than to be simple, modest, manly, true, Safe from the many, honored by the few; Nothing to court in Church, or World, or State, But inwardly in secret to be great.

Some kind of pace may be got out of the eeriest jade by the near prospect of oats; but the thoroughbred has the spur in his blood.

The very gnarliest and hardest of hearts has some musical strings in it; but they are tuned differently in every one of us.