If a man sits down to think, he is immediately asked if he has a headache.

In self-trust all the virtues are comprehended.

The eye is the best of artists.

Society does not love its unmaskers.

God may forgive sins, he said, but awkwardness has no forgiveness in heaven or earth.

Come, see the north-wind's masonry, Out of an unseen quarry evermore Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer Curves his white bastions with projected roof Round every windward stake, or tree, or door. Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work So fanciful, so savage, naught cares he For number or proportion.

Behind us, as we go, all things assume pleasing forms, as clouds do far off. Not only things familiar and stale, but even the tragic and terrible, are comely, as they take their place in the pictures of memory.