Time flies over us, but leaves its shadow behind.
What we need for our happiness is often close at hand, if we knew but how to seek for it.
To the untrue man, the whole universe is false- it is impalpable- it shrinks to nothing within his grasp. And he himself is in so far as he shows himself in a false light, becomes a shadow, or, indeed, ceases to exist.
Our most intimate friend is not he to whom we show the worst, but the best of our nature.
I cannot endure to waste anything as precious as autumn sunshine by staying in the house. So I spend almost all the daylight hours in the open air.
Life is made up of marble and mud.
To do nothing is the way to be nothing.
What other dungeon is so dark as one's own heart! What jailer so inexorable as one's self!
Life, within doors, has few pleasanter prospects than a neatly-arranged and well-provisioned breakfast-table.
What a happy and holy fashion it is that those who love one another should rest on the same pillow.
Let men tremble to win the hand of woman, unless they win along with it the utmost passion of her heart!
When scattered clouds are resting on the bosoms of hills, it seems as if one might climb into the heavenly region, earth being so intermixed with sky, and gradually transformed into it.
Words - so innocent and powerless as they are, as standing in a dictionary, how potent for good and evil they become in the hands of one who knows how to combine them.
No man for any considerable period can wear one face to himself and another to the multitude, without finally getting bewildered as to which may be the true.
The thing you set your mind on is the thing you ultimately become.
Happiness is a butterfly, which when pursued, is always just beyond your grasp, but which, if you will sit down quietly, may alight upon you.
Though we speak nonsense, God will pick out the meaning of it.
...happiness is not found in things you possess, but in what you have the courage to release...
We must not always talk in the market-place of what happens to us in the forest.
Every individual has a place to fill in the world and is important in some respect whether he chooses to be so or not.
That pit of blackness that lies beneath us, everywhere ... the firmest substance of human happiness is but a thin crust spread over it, with just reality enough to bear up the illusive stage-scenery amid which we tread. It needs no earthquake to open the chasm.
Nothing is more unaccountable than the spell that often lurks in a spoken word. A thought may be present to the mind, and two minds conscious of the same thought, but as long as it remains unspoken their familiar talk flows quietly over the hidden idea.
When individuals approach one another with deep purposes on both sides they seldom come at once to the matter which they have most at heart. They dread the electric shock of a too sudden contact with it.
The breath of peace was fanning her glorious brow, her head was bowed a very little forward, and a tress, escaping from its bonds, fell by the side of her pure white temple, and close to her just opened lips; it hung there motionless! no breath disturbed its repose! She slept as an angel might sleep, having accomplished the mission of her God.
A hero cannot be a hero unless in a heroic world.
A pure hand needs no glove to cover it.
Ugliness without tact is horrible.
The love of posterity is the consequence of the necessity of death. If a man were sure of living forever here, he would not care about his offspring.
Religion and art spring from the same root and are close kin. Economics and art are strangers.
The only sensible ends of literature are, first, the pleasurable toil of writing; second, the gratification of one's family and friends; and lastly, the solid cash.
Man's own youth is the world's youth; at least he feels as if it were, and imagines that the earth's granite substance is something not yet hardened, and which he can mould into whatever shape he likes.
What we call real estate - the solid ground to build a house on - is the broad foundation on which nearly all the guilt of this world rests.
Is it a fact-or have I dreamt it-that, by means of electricity, the world of matter has become a great nerve, vibrating thousands of miles in a breathless point of time?
The heart of true womanhood knows where its own sphere is, and never seeks to stray beyond it!
She poured out the liquid music of her voice to quench the thirst of his spirit.
What is the voice of song when the world lacks the ear of taste?
The founders of a new colony, whatever Utopia of human virtue and happiness they might originally project, have invariably recognized it among their earliest practical necessities to allot a portion of the virgin soil as a cemetery, and another portion as the site of a prison.
And there I sat, long long ago, waiting for the world to know me.