Books are but waste paper unless we spend in action the wisdom we get from thought - asleep. When we are weary of the living, we may repair to the dead, who have nothing of peevishness, pride, or design in their conversation.
Too long a sacrifice can make a stone of the heart. O when may it suffice?
There are no strangers here; Only friends you haven't yet met.
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
Think where man's glory most begins and ends, and say my glory was I had such friends.
We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry.
