One thorn of experience is worth a whole wilderness of warning.
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As life runs on, the road grows strange With faces new,-and near the end The milestones into headstones change, 'Neath every one a friend.
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Solitude is as needful to the imagination as society is wholesome for the character.
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But all God's angels come to us disguised...
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It is not the insurrections of ignorance that are dangerous, but the revolts of the intelligence.
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What men prize most is a privilege, even if it be that of chief mourner at a funeral.
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There is no self-delusion more fatal than that which makes the conscience dreamy with the anodyne of lofty sentiments, while the life is groveling and sensual.
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Want gave tongue, and at her howl, Sin awakened with a growl.
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In the ocean of baseness, the deeper we get, the easier the sinking.
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A wise skepticism is the first attribute of a good critic.
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The only faith that wears well and holds its color in all weathers is that which is woven of conviction and set with the sharp mordant of experience.
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There is no good in arguing with the inevitable. The only argument available with an east wind is to put on your overcoat.
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Mishaps are like knives, that either serve us or cut us, as we grasp them by the blade or the handle.
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They are slaves who fear to speak, For the fallen and the weak.
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Truth, after all, wears a different face to everybody, and it would be too tedious to wait till all were agreed.
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Wealth may be an ancient thing, for it means power, it means leisure, it means liberty.
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There is no good arguing with the inevitible. The only argument available with an east wind is to put on your overcoat.
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In creating, the only hard thing is to begin a grass blade's no easier to make than an oak.
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Democracy gives every man the right to be his own oppressor.
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We live in oppressive times. We have, as a nation, become our own thought police but instead of calling the process by which we limit our expression of dissent and wonder 'censorship,' we call it 'concern for commercial viability.'
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Who knows whither the clouds have fled? In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake,...
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Light is the symbol of truth.
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They talk about their Pilgrim blood, Their birthright high and holy A mountain-stream that ends in mud Methinks is melancholy.
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Blessed are they who have nothing to say and who cannot be persuaded to say it.
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Where one person shapes their life by precept and example, there are a thousand who have shaped it by impulse and circumstances.
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All the beautiful sentiments in the world weigh less than a single lovely action.
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A poet must need be before his own age, to be even with posterity.
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Folks never understand the folks they hate.
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It is the rooted instinct in men to admire what is better and more beautiful than themselves.
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They are slaves who fear to speak,
For the fallen and the weak.
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