In the earliest ages science was poetry, as in the later poetry has become science.

Virtue treads paths that end not in the grave.

And what is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days.

Truth only needs to be for once spoken out; and there's such music in her, such strange rhythm, as makes men's memories her joyous slaves.

Some day the soft Ideal that we wooed confronts us fiercely, foe-beset, pursued, and cries reproachful: Was it then my praise, and not myself was loved? Prove now thy truth; I claim of thee the promise of thy youth.

Light is the symbol of truth.

There is no better ballast for keeping the mind steady on its keel, and saving it from all risk of crankiness, than business.