It Is One Thing To

How Should All The Apparatus Of Heaven And Earth Make Poetry For A Mind That Had No Movements Of Awe And Tenderness, No Sense Of Fellowship Which Thrills From The Near To The Distant, And Back Again From The Distant To The Near?

Nothing At Times Is More Expressive Than Silence.

Our Dead Are Never Dead To Us, Until We Have Forgotten Them.

A Suppressed Resolve Will Betray Itself In The Eyes.

Our Deeds Are Like Children That Are Born To Us; They Live And Act Apart From Our Own Will. Nay, Children May Be Strangled, But Deeds Never: They Have An Indestructible Life Both In And Out Of Our Consciousness.