There are as many pillows of illusion as flakes in a snow-storm. We wake from one dream into another dream.

Dream delivers us to dream, and there is no end to illusion. Life is like a train of moods like a string of beads, and, as we pass through them, they prove to be many-colored lenses which paint the world their own hue. . . .

There is an optical illusion about every person we meet.

The hero is not fed on sweets, Daily his own heart he eats; Chambers of the great are jails, And head-winds right for royal sails. Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better, sleep to wake.

America is another name for opportunity.

We must be our own before we can be another's.