Thought, true labor of any kind, highest virtue itself, is it not the daughter of Pain?

The lightning spark of thought generated in the solitary mind awakens its likeness in another mind.

There is no heroic poem in the world but is at bottom a biography, the life of a man.

Teach a parrot the terms 'supply and demand' and you've got an economist.

A star is beautiful; it affords pleasure, not from what it is to do, or to give, but simply by being what it is. It befits the heavens; it has congruity with the mighty space in which it dwells. It has repose; no force disturbs its eternal peace. It has freedom; no obstruction lies between it and infinity.

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.

If I say that Shakespeare is the greatest of intellects, I have said all concerning him. But there is more in Shakespeare's intellect than we have yet seen. It is what I call an unconscious intellect; there is more virtue in it that he himself is aware of.