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It is seldom that the miserable of the world can help regarding their misery as a wrong inflicted by those who are less miserable.

What makes like dreary is the want of motive.

Every woman is supposed to have the same set of motives, or else to be a monster.

I think I should have no other mortal wants, if I could always have plenty of music. It seems to infuse strength into my limbs and ideas into my brain. Life seems to go on without effort, when I am filled with music.

A supreme love, a motive that gives a sublime rhythm to a woman's life, and exalts habit into partnership with the soul's highest needs, is not to be had where and how she wills.

O radiant Dark! O darkly fostered ray! Thou hast a joy too deep for shallow Day.

Dark the Night, with breath all flowers, And tender broken voice that fills With ravishment the listening hours,-- Whisperings, wooings, Liquid ripples, and soft ring-dove cooings In low-toned rhythm that love's aching stills! Dark the night Yet is she bright, For in her dark she brings the mystic star, Trembling yet strong, as is the voice of love, From some unknown afar.

Nothing is so good as it seems beforehand.

Opposition may become sweet to a man when he has christened it persecution.

But most of us are apt to settle within ourselves that the man who blocks our way is odious, and not to mind causing him a little of the disgust which his personality excites in ourselves.

Pain is no evil unless it conquers us.

In every parting there is an image of death.

Opposition may become sweet to a man when he has christened it persecution.

More helpful than all wisdom is one draught of simple human pity that will not forsake us.

There is no private life which has not been determined by a wider public life.

All things journey: sun and moon, Morning, noon, and afternoon, Night and all her stars; 'Twixt the east and western bars Round they journey, Come and go! We go with them!

Animals are such agreeable friends - they ask no questions, they pass no criticisms.

Two angels guide The path of man, both aged and yet young. As angels are, ripening through endless years, On one he leans: some call her Memory, And some Tradition; and her voice is sweet, With deep mysterious accords: the other, Floating above, holds down a lamp with streams A light divine and searching on the earth, Compelling eyes and footsteps. Memory yields, Yet clings with loving check, and shines anew, Reflecting all the rays of that bright lamp Our angel Reason holds. We had not walked But for Tradition; we walk evermore To higher paths by brightening Reason's lamp.

Iteration, like friction, is likely to generate heat instead of progress.

Consequences are unpitying. Our deeds carry their terrible consequences, quite apart from any fluctuations that went before--consequences that are hardly ever confined to ourselves.