Heaven sometimes hedges a rare character about with ungainliness and odium, as the burr that protects the fruit.

One more royal trait properly belongs to the poet. I mean his cheerfulness, without which no man can be a poet,--for beauty is his aim. He loves virtue, not for its obligation, but for its grace; he delights in the world, in man, in woman, for the lovely light that sparkles from them. Beauty, the spirit of joy and hilarity, he sheds over the universe.

Religion is to do right. It is to love, it is to serve, it is to think, it is to be humble.

When we attempt to define and describe God, both language and thought desert us, and we are as helpless as fools and savages.

What your heart thinks is great, is great. The soul's emphasis is always right.

A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines.

As a man thinketh, so is he, and as a man chooseth, so is he.