What you are shouts at me so loudly that I can't hear a word you say.

A bullet had found him, his blood ran out as he cried. No money could save him, so he laid down and died. Ooh, what a lucky man he was.

When I behold a rich landscape, it is less to my purpose to recite correctly the order and superposition of the strata, than to know why all thought of multitude is lost in a tranquil sense of unity.

Cultivate an attitude of gratitude, of giving and forgiving. Nothing can bring you peace but yourself.

Philanthropic and religious bodies do not commonly make their executive officers out of saints.

All sensible people are selfish, and nature is tugging at every contract to make the terms of it fair.

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