A Man's Perfection Is His Work.

To The Vulgar Eye, Few Things Are Wonderful That Are Not Distant

Secrecy Is The Element Of All Goodness; Even Virtue, Even Beauty Is Mysterious.

History Is The New Poetry.

Who Is It That Loves Me And Will Love Me Forever With An Affection Which No Chance, No Misery, No Crime Of Mine Can Do Away? It Is You, My Mother.

Thought Once Awakened Does Not Again Slumber; Unfolds Itself Into A System Of Thought; Grows, In Man After Man, Generation After Generation, - Till Its Full Stature Is Reached, And Such System Of Thought Can Grow No Farther, But Must Give Place To Another.