Not always can flowers, pearls, poetry, protestations, nor even home in another heart, content the awful soul that dwells in clay.

I hate to be defended in a newspaper. As long as all that is said is said against me, I feel a certain assurance of success. But as soon as honeyed words of praise are spoken for me, I feel as one that lies unprotected before his enemies.

The worst of charity is that the lives you are asked to preserve are not worth preserving.

Dreams have a poetic integrity and truth. This limbo and dust-hole of thought is presided over by a certain reason, too.

The ancients called beauty the flowering of virtue.

Only to youth will spring be spring.

The Soul rules over matter. Matter may pass away like a mote in the sunbeam, may be absorbed into the immensity of God, as a mistis absorbed into the heat of the Sun--but the soul is the kingdom of God, the abode of love, of truth, of virtue.