Never yet was a springtime, when the buds forgot to bloom.

On the day long after childhood when I suddenly heard of his death, the sky grew dark above my head. I was walking on a Southern highway, and a friend driving in a pony carriage passed me, stopped and said, "Have you heard that Charles Dickens is dead?" It was as if I had been robbed of one of my dearest friends.

... Love is heaven and claims its own.

Self-complacen cy is fatal to progress.

Love turns all the wheels of human industry, is the motive power under the world's machinery, makes worthwhile every enterprise on the earth, is coequal with life, outlasts death, and reaches onward into heaven.

In the whole round of human affairs little is so fatal to peace as misunderstanding.

A letter is the most imperishable thing on earth.