Given the books of a man, it is not difficult, I think, to detect therein the personality of the man, and the station in life to which he was born.

Silence is the speech of love, The music of the spheres above.

There is no death-the thing that we call death Is but another, sadder name for life, Which is itself an insufficient name, Faint recognition of that unknown life- That Power whose shadow is the Universe.

Children are the keys of Paradise. They alone are good and wise, because their thoughts, their very lives are prayer.

We love in others what we lack ourselves, and would be everything but what we are.

We grow like flowers, and bear desire, the odor of the human flowers.

There is no hope the future will but turn the old sand in the falling glass of time.