Leave the poor Some time for self-improvement. Let them not Be forced to grind the bones out of their arms For bread, but have some space to think and feel Like moral and immortal creatures.

Blest is he whose heart is the home of the great dead and their great thoughts.

Man is one; and he hath one great heart. It is thus we feel, with a gigantic throb athwart the sea, each other's rights and wrongs; thus are we men.

Love is the art of hearts, and heart or arts.

The ground of all great thoughts is sadness.

The worst way to improve the world is to condemn it.

Could I love less, I should be happier now.