Many An Irritating Fault, Many An Unlovely

There Is Nothing That Will Kill A Man So Soon As Having Nobody To Find Fault With But Himself.

But What We Call Our Despair Is Often Only The Painful Eagerness Of Unfed Hope.

Wit Is A Form Of Force That Leaves The Limbs At Rest.

Speech Is But Broken Light Upon The Depth Of The Unspoken.

My Own Experience And Development Deepen Every Day My Conviction That Our Moral Progress May Be Measured By The Degree In Which We Sympathize With Individual Suffering And Individual Joy.