Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how.
Books are the bees which carry the quickening pollen from one to another mind.
In creating, the only hard thing is to begin: a grass blade’s no easier to make than an oak.
The heart forgets its sorrow and ache.
The greatest homage we can pay to truth, is to use it.
Once to every person and nation come the moment to decide. In the conflict of truth with falsehood, for the good or evil side.
Death is delightful. Death is dawn, The waking from a weary night Of fevers unto truth and light.
One thorn of experience is worth a whole wilderness of warning.
Folks never understand the folks they hate.
Mishaps are like knives, that either serve us or cut us, as we grasp them by the blade or the handle.