I love an author the more for having been himself a lover of books.
Look not mournfully into the past. It comes not back again.
We have not wings we cannot soar; but, we have feet to scale and climb, by slow degrees, by more and more, the cloudy summits of our time.
It has done me good to be somewhat parched by the heat and drenched by the rain of life.
Each morning sees some task begin, each evening sees it close.
Out of the bosom of the Air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, Over the woodlands brown and bare, Over the harvest-fields forsaken, Silent, and soft, and slow Descends the snow.
Love gives itself; it is not bought.
Most people would succeed in small things if they were not troubled with great ambitions.
Love keeps the cold out better than a cloak.
It is difficult to know at what moment love begins; it is less difficult to know that it has begun.
Many readers judge of the power of a book by the shock it gives their feelings – as some savage tribes determine the power of muskets by their recoil; that being considered best which fairly prostrates the purchaser.
Art is the child of Nature.
Perseverance is a great element of success.
When a great man dies, for years the light he leaves behind him, lies on the paths of men.
The talent of success is nothing more than doing what you can do, well.
Sunday is the golden clasp that binds together the volume of the week.
They are dead; but they live in each Patriot’s breast, And their names are engraven on honor’s bright crest.
When one is truly in love, one not only says it, but shows it.
The heights by great men reached and kept were not attained by sudden flight, but they, while their companions slept, were toiling upward in the night.
Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; Thy fate is the common fate of all, Into each life some rain must fall.