Intellect is the soul of man, the only immortal part of him.

The mystery of a person, indeed, is ever divine to him that has a sense for the godlike.

Happy season of childhood! Kind Nature, that art to all a bountiful mother; that visitest the poor man's hut With auroral radiance; and for thy nursling hast provided a soft swathing of love and infinite hope wherein he waxes and slumbers, danced round by sweetest dreams!

All true work is sacred. In all true work, were it but true hand work, there is something of divineness. Labor, wide as the earth, has its summit in Heaven.

Our grand business undoubtedly is, not to see what lies dimly at a distance, but to do what lies clearly at hand.

No age seemed the age of romance to itself.

Nothing ever happens but once in all this world. What I do now I do once for all. It is over and gone, with all its eternity of solemn meaning.