Imagination is at the root of much that passes for love.

Love knows not distance; it hath no continent; its eyes are for the stars.

Much that passes as idealism is disguised hatred or disguised love of power.

There is no refuge from memory and remorse in this world. The spirits of our foolish deeds haunt us, with or without repentance.

Man is born in a day, and he dies in a day, and the thing is easily over; but to have a sick heart for three-fourths of one's lifetime is simply to have death renewed every morning; and life at that price is not worth living.

He came by a leap to the goal of purpose, not by the toilsome steps of reason. On the instant his headlong spirit declared his purpose: this was the one being for him in all the world: at this altar he would light a lamp of devotion, and keep it burning forever.