It may be glorious to write Thoughts that shall glad the two or three High souls, like those far stars that come in sight Once in a century.

For men in earnest have no time to waste In patching fig-leaves for the naked truth.

Beauty hath no true glass, except it be in the sweet privacy of loving eyes.

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

It is the vain endeavor to make ourselves what we are not that has strewn history with so many broken purposes and lives left in the rough.

Who gives himself with his alms feeds three, himself, his hungering neighbor and me.

It is curious how tyrannical the habit of reading is...