No life can be pure in its purpose, and strong in its strife, and all life not be purer and stronger thereby.

There is a pleasure that is born of pain.

That man is great, and he alone, Who serves a greatness not his own, For neither praise nor self: Content to know and be unknown: Whole in himself.

The man who seeks one thing in life and but one, May hope to achieve it before life is done; But he who seeks all things, wherever he goes, Only reaps from the hopes which around him he sows, A harvest of barren regrets.

Alas! must it ever be so? Do we stand in our own light, wherever we go, And fight our own shadows forever?

Whenever I hear French spoken as I approve, I find myself quietly falling in love.

We are but as the instrument of Heaven.