Is there some principal of nature which states that we never know the quality of what we have until it is gone?

There is one knows not what sweet mystery about this sea, whose gently awful stirrings seem to speak of some hidden soul beneath

To the last, I grapple with thee; From Hell's heart, I stab at thee; For hate's sake, I spit my last breath at thee

There seems no reason why patriotism and narrowness should go together, or why intellectual fairmindedness should be confounded with political trimming, or why serviceable truth should keep cloistered because not partisan

This, shipmates, this is that other lesson; and woe to that pilot of the living God who slights it.

There is no quality in this world that is not what it is merely by contrast. Nothing exists in itself.