Cherish what is dearest while you have it near you, and wait not till it is far away. Blind and deaf that we are; oh, think, if thou yet love anybody living, wait not till death sweep down the paltry little dust clouds and dissonances of the moment, and all be made at last so mournfully clear and beautiful, when it is too late.

Man is, and was always, a block-head and dullard; much readier to feel and digest, than to think and consider.

With union grounded on falsehood and ordering us to speak and act lies, we will not have anything to do. Peace? A brutal lethargy is peaceable; the noisome is peaceable. We hope for a living peace, not a dead one!

The suffering man ought really to consume his own smoke; there is no good in emitting smoke till you have made it into fire.

Nothing that was worthy in the past departs; no truth or goodness realized by man ever dies, or can die.

Man, it is not thy works, which are mortal, infinitely little, and the greatest no greater than the least, but only the spirit thou workest in, that can have worth or continuance.

Nature, after all, is still the grand agent in making poets.