Childhood is only the beautiful and happy time in contemplation and retrospect: to the child it is full of deep sorrows, the meaning of which is unknown.
Childhood has no forebodings; but then, it is soothed by no memories of outlived sorrow.
Character is not cut in marble – it is not something solid and unalterable. It is something living and changing, and may become diseased as our bodies do.
But what we strive to gratify, though we may call it a distant hope, is an immediate desire: the future estate for which men drudge up city alleys exists already in their imagination and love.
But what we call our despair is often only the painful eagerness of unfed hope.
But what is opportunity to the man who can’t use it? An unfecundated egg, which the waves of time wash away into nonentity.
But human experience is usually paradoxical, if that means incongruous with the phrases of current talk or even current philosophy.
Breed was stronger than pasture.
Blessed is the man who, having nothing to say, abstains from giving us wordy evidence of the fact.
Blessed influence of one true loving human soul on another!
Blameless people are always the most exasperating.
Beauty is part of the finished language by which goodness speaks.
