A Woman's Hopes Are Woven Of Sunbeams;

Our Dead Are Never Dead To Us Until We Have Forgotten Them: They Can Be Injured By Us, They Can Be Wounded; They Know All Our Penitence, All Our Aching Sense That Their Place Is Empty, All The Kisses We Bestow On The Smallest Relic Of Their Presence.

Receptiveness Is A Rare And Massive Power, Like Fortitude.

How Could A Man Be Satisfied With A Decision Between Such Alternatives And Under Such Circumstances No More Than He Can Be Satisfied With His Hat, Which He's Chosen From Among Such Shapes As The Resources Of The Age Offer Him. . . .

Miserliness Is A Capital Quality To Run In Families; It's The Safe Side For Madness To Dip On.

If Art Does Not Enlarge Men's Sympathies, It Does Nothing Morally.