Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; And we are here as on a darkling plain Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, Where ignorant armies clash by night.

Religion is ethics heightened, enkindled, lit up by feeling

Come to me in my dreams, and then By day I shall be well again. For then the night will more than pay The hopeless longing of the day.

How many minds--almost all the great ones--were formed in secrecy and solitude!

Saw life steadily and saw it whole.

To the Bible men will return; and why? Because they cannot do without it.

Journalism is literature in a hurry.