Oh Sleep! It Is A Gentle Thing,

When A Man Mistakes His Thoughts For Persons And Things, He Is Mad.

Greatness And Goodness Are Not Means, But Ends! Hath He Not Always Treasures, Always Friends, The Good Great Man? Three Treasures, Love And Light, And Calm Thoughts, Regular As Infants' Breath; And Three Firm Friends, More Sure Than Day And Night, Himself, His Maker, And The Angel Death.

A Mother Is A Mother Still, The Holiest Thing Alive.

As It Must Not, So Genius Cannot Be Lawless; For It Is Even That Constitutes Its Genius - The Power Of Acting Creatively Under Laws Of Its Own Origination.

Frenchmen Are Like Gunpowder, Each By Itself Smutty And Contemptible, But Mass Them Together And They Are Terrible Indeed!