It is a terrible thing to be happy! How pleased we are with it! How all-sufficient we think it! How, being in possession of the false aim of life, happiness, we forget the true aim, duty!
Every man is a book in which God himself writes.
Desiring always to be in mourning, he clothed himself with night.
Knowledge is a weight added to conscience.
Dear God! how beauty varies in nature and art.
Death belongs to God alone; by what right do men touch that unknown thing?