All true work is sacred.

Man's unhappiness, as I construe, comes of his greatness; it is because there is an Infinite in him, which with all his cunning he cannot quite bury under the Finite.

Evil and good are everywhere, like shadow and substance; inseparable (for men) yet not hostile, only opposed.

The fine arts once divorcing themselves from truth are quite certain to fall mad, if they do not die.

What is nature? Art thou not the living government of God? O Heaven, is it in very deed He then that ever speaks through thee, that lives and loves in thee, that lives and loves in me?

Who is it that loves me and will love me forever with an affection which no chance, no misery, no crime of mine can do away? It is you, my mother.

If what you have done is unjust, you have not succeeded.