I wish the days to be as centuries, loaded, fragrant. Now we reckon them as bank-days, by some debt which is to be paid us, or which we are to pay, or some pleasure we are to taste.

In my utter impotence to test the authenticity of the report of my senses, to know whether the impressions they make on me correspond with outlying objects, what difference does it make, whether Orion is up there in heaven, or some god paints the image in the firmament of the soul?

Men achieve a certain greatness unawares when working to another aim.

Throw a stone into the stream and the ripples that propagate themselves are the beautiful type of all influence.

Music takes us out of the actual and whispers to us dim secrets that startles out wonder as to who we are, and for what, whence, and whereto.

A man in a cave or in a camp, a nomad, will die with no more estate than the wolf or the horse leaves.

No man has ever had a point of pride that was not injurious to him.