Show me the person you honor, for I know better by that the kind of person you are. For you show me what your idea of humanity is.

It is a strange trade that of advocacy. Your intellect, your highest heavenly gift is hung up in the shop window like a loaded pistol for sale.

The actual well seen is ideal.

A poor creature who has said or done nothing worth a serious man taking the trouble of remembering.

Rightly viewed no meanest object is insignificant; all objects are as windows through which the philosophic eye looks into infinitude itself.

Is there no God, then, but at best an absentee God, sitting idle, ever since the first Sabbath, at the outside of his Universe?

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