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.

How indestructibly the good grows, and propagates itself, even among the weedy entanglements of evil.

In a certain sense all men are historians.

Every poet, be his outward lot what it may, finds himself born in the midst of prose; h e has to struggle from the littleness and obstruction of an actual world into the freedom and infinitude of an ideal.

If time is precious, no book that will not improve by repeated readings deserves to be read at all.

Well might the ancients make silence a god; for it is the element of all godhood, infinitude, or transcendental greatness,--at once the source and the ocean wherein all such begins and ends.

Love not pleasure; love God. This is the Everlasting Yea, wherein all contradiction is solved.