Is it true, O Christ in heaven, that the highest suffer the most? That the strongest wander furthest and most hopelessly are lost? That the mark of rank in nature is capacity for pain? That the anguish of the singer makes the sweetness of the strain?
How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, Stol'n on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!
For books are not absolutely dead things, but do contain a potency of life in them to be as active as that soul was whose progeny they are; nay, they do preserve as in a vial the purest efficacy and extraction of that living intellect that bred them.
A good book is the precious life-blood of a master spirit, embalmed and treasured up on purpose to a life beyond life.
Many a man lives a burden to the Earth, but a good book is the precious life-blood of a master spirit, imbalmed and treasured up on purpose to a life beyond life.
Gratitude bestows reverence, allowing us to encounter everyday epiphanies, those transcendent moments of awe that change forever how we experience life and the world.
The superior man acquaints himself with many sayings of antiquity and many deeds of the past, in order to strengthen his character thereby.
When complaints are freely heard, deeply considered and speedily reformed, then is the utmost bound of civil liberty attained that wise men look for.
Confusion heard his voice, and wild uproar Stood ruled, stood vast infinitude confined; Till at his second bidding darkness fled, Light shone, and order from disorder sprung.
To be blind is not miserable; not to be able to bear blindness, that is miserable.
Deep-versed in books and shallow in himself.
Beauty is nature's brag, and must be shown in courts, at feasts, and high solemnities, where most may wonder at the workmanship.
For what can war, but endless war, still breed?
He that has light within his own clear breast May sit in the centre, and enjoy bright day: But he that hides a dark soul and foul thoughts Benighted walks under the mid-day sun; Himself his own dungeon.
Love-quarrels oft in pleasing concord end.
Though we take from a covetous man all his treasure, he has yet one jewel left; you cannot bereave him of his covetousness.
True it is that covetousness is rich, modesty starves.
Who kills a man kills a reasonable creature, God's image, but thee who destroys a good book, kills reason its self.
The stars, that nature hung in heaven, and filled their lamps with everlasting oil, give due light to the misled and lonely traveller.
Virtue could see to do what Virtue would by her own radiant light, though sun and moon where in the flat sea sunk.