This strange disease of modern life, With its sick hurry, its divided aims.

We are here on earth to do good to others. What the others are here for, I do not know.

Joy comes and goes, hope ebbs and flows Like the wave; Change doth unknit the tranquil strength of men. Love tends life a little grace, A few sad smiles; and then, Both are laid in one cold place, In the grave.

The freethinking of one age is the common sense of the next.

Life is pleasant. Death is peaceful. It’s the transition that’s troublesome.

With women the heart argues, not the mind.

The difference between genuine poetry and the poetry of Dryden, Pope, and all their school, is briefly this: their poetry is conceived and composed in their wits, genuine poetry is conceived and composed in the soul.

Journalism is literature in a hurry.

Truth sits upon the lips of dying men.

The true meaning of religion is thus not simply morality, but morality touched by emotion.

[Oxford] Home of lost causes, and forsaken beliefs and unpopular names and impossible loyalties.

The pursuit of perfection, then, is the pursuit of sweetness and light.