Glory is a shroud that posterity often tears from the shoulders of those who wore it when living.

Adieu! 'tis love's last greeting, The parting hour is come! And fast thy soul is fleeting To seek its starry home.

What divides men is less a difference in ideas than a likeness in pretensions.

Glory is a shroud that posterity often tears from the shoulders of those who wore it when living.

Paradise is open to all kind hearts.

Our century is a brutal thinker.

Many have lived on a pedestal who will never have a statue when dead.