Everything is made of one hidden stuff.

All persons are puzzles until at last we find in some word or act the key to the man, to the woman; straightway all their past words and actions lie in light before us.

A poem is made up of thoughts, each of which filled the whole sky of the poet in its turn.

Body cannot teach wisdom; God only.

I take this evanescence and lubricity of all objects, which lets them slip through our fingers then when we clutch hardest, to be the most unhandsome part of our condition.

I am so much a Unitarian as this: that I believe the human mind can admit but one God, and that every effort to pay religious homage to more than one being goes to take away all right ideas.

Perhaps love is only the highest symbol of friendship, as all other things seem symbols of love.