...in consequence of the film of familiarity and selfish solicitude, we have eyes yet see not, ears that hear not, and hearts that neither feel nor understand.

The doing evil to avoid an evil cannot be good.

He went like one that hath been stunn'd, And is of sense forlorn: A sadder and a wiser man He rose the morrow morn.

Love is flower like; Friendship is like a sheltering tree.

Falsehood is fire in stubble; it likewise turns all the light stuff around it into its own substance for a moment, one crackling blazing moment, and then dies; and all its converts are scattered in the wind, without place or evidence of their existence, as viewless as the wind which scatters them.

Why aren't more gems from our great authors scattered over the country? Great books aren't within everybody's reach.

The words in prose ought to express the intended meaning, and no more; if they attract attention to themselves, it is, in general, a fault.