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

The eye is the notebook of the poet.

Most men make the voyage of life as if they carried sealed orders which they were not to open till they were fairly in mid-ocean.

There comes Emerson first, whose rich words, every one, Are like gold nails in temples to hang trophies on.

Attention is the stuff that memory is made of, and memory is accumulated genius.

Whom the heart of man shuts out, Sometimes the heart of God takes in, And fences them all round about With silence mid the worlds loud din.

If the devil take a less hateful shape to us than to our fathers, he is as busy with us as with them.