Romanticism is beauty without bounds-the beautiful infinite.
Despair is the only genuine atheism.
Joy descends gently upon us like the evening dew, and does not patter down like a hailstorm.
The words that a father speaks to his children in the privacy of home are not heard by the world, but, as in whispering galleries, they are clearly heard at the end, and by posterity.
Man's feelings are always purest and most glowing in the hour of meeting and of farewell.
For the Infinite has sowed his name in the heavens in burning stars, but on the earth He has sowed his name in tender flowers.