The sorrow that lay cold in her mother's heart... converted it into a tomb.

It is my opinion that a man's soul may be buried and perish under a dung-heap, or in a furrow field, just as well as under a pile of money.

Genius, indeed, melts many ages into one, and thus effects something permanent, yet still with a similarity of office to that of the more ephemeral writer. A work of genius is but the newspaper of a century, or perchance of a hundred centuries.

Happiness is not found in things you possess, but in what you have the courage to release.

Nobody, I think, ought to read poetry, or look at pictures or statues, who cannot find a great deal more in them than the poet or artist has actually expressed. Their highest merit is suggestiveness.

The best of us being unfit to die, what an unexpressible absurdity to put the worst to death.

Families are always rising and falling in America.