The sentimentalist does not think of what he does so much as of what the world will think of what he does.
Not but wut abstract war is horrid, I sign to thet with all my heart, But civilysation doos git forrid Sometimes, upon a powder-cart.
It may be conjectured that it is cheaper in the long run to lift men up than to hold them down, and that the ballot in their hands is less dangerous to society than a sense of wrong is in their heads.
Dear common flower, that grow’st beside the way, Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold, First pledge of blithesome May, Which children pluck, and, full of pride uphold.
It seems to me that the bane of our country is a profession of faith either with no basis of real belief, or with no proper examination of the grounds on which the creed is supposed to rest.
Where Church and State are habitually associated, it is natural that minds, even of a high order, should unconsciously come to regard religion as only a subtler mode of police.
Darkness is strong, and so is Sin, But surely God endures forever!
God’ll send the bill to you.
A ginooine statesman should be on his guard, if he must hev beliefs, not to b’lieve ’em too hard.
There is a law of neutralization of forces, which hinders bodies from sinking beyond a certain depth in the sea; but in the ocean of baseness, the deeper we get, the easier the sinking.
Attention is the stuff that memory is made of, and memory is accumulated genius.
Most long lives resemble those threads of gossamer, the nearest approach to nothing unmeaningly prolonged, scarce visible pathways of some worm from his cradle to his grave.
It is curious how tyrannical the habit of reading is, and what shifts we make to escape thinking. There is no bore we dread being left alone with so much as our own minds.
Fools, when their roof-tree falls, think it doomsday.
A profound common sense is the best genius for statesmanship.
For Humanity sweeps onward: where today the martyr stands, On the morrow crouches Judas with the silver in his hands; Far in front the cross stands ready and the crackling fagots burn, While the hooting mob of yesterday in silent awe return To glean up the scattered ashes into History’s golden urn.
Keats longed for fame, but longed above all to deserve it.
With every anguish of our earthly part The spirit’s sight grows clearer.
Fate loves best such syllables as are sweet and sonorous on the tongue.
Tis as easy to be heroes as to sit the idle slaves.