Life is painting a picture, not doing a sum.

To us who remain behind is left this day of memories. Every year--in the full tide of spring, at the height of the symphony of flowers and love and life--there comes a pause, and through the silence we hear the lonely pipe of death.

The only prize much cared for by the powerful is power. The prize of the general is not a bigger tent, but command.

The wind blows out, the bubble dies; The spring entomb'd in autumn lies; The dew dries up; the star is shot; The flight is past, and man forgot.

Nothing is so commonplace has the wish to be remarkable.

Every now and then a man's mind is stretched by a new idea or sensation, and never shrinks back to its former dimensions.

The world is always ready to receive talent with open arms. Very often it does not know what to do with genius.