Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, As the swift seasons roll! Leave thy low-vaulted past! Let each new temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!

Man is born a predestined idealist, for he is born to act. To act is to affirm the worth of an end, and to persist in affirming the worth of an end is to make an ideal.

It's faith in something and enthusiasm for something that makes a life worth living.

The sea drowns out humanity and time. It has no sympathy with either, for it belongs to eternity; and of that it sings its monotonous song forever and ever.

Sweet is the scene where genial friendship plays the pleasing game of interchanging praise.

Chicago sounds rough to the maker of verse. One comfort we have - Cincinnati sounds worse.

I hate facts. I always say the chief end of man is to form general propositions - adding that no general proposition is worth a damn.