Ideas, like individuals, live and die. They flourish, according to their nature, in one soil or climate and droop in another. They are the vegetation of the mental world.

Birth is the sudden opening of a window, through which you look out upon a stupendous prospect. For what has happened? A miracle. You have exchanged nothing for the possibility of everything.

The facts of the present won't sit still for a portrait. They are constantly vibrating, full of clutter and confusion.

To love and win is the best thing. To love and lose, the next best.

The facts of the present won't sit still for a portrait. They are constantly vibrating, full of clutter and confusion.

Little seedlings never flourish in the soil they have been given, be it ever so excellent, if they are continually pulled up to see if the roots are grateful yet