I do not believe in any religion, I will have nothing to do with immortality. We are miserable enough in this life without speculating upon another.

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But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.

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To have joy, one must share it.

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Be warm, be pure, be amorous, but be chaste.

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The dew of compassion is a tear.

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Man is in part divine, A troubled stream from a pure source.

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There is no instinct like that of the heart.

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The light of love, the purity of grace, The mind, the Music breathing from her face, The heart whose softness harmonised the whole — And, oh! that eye was in itself a Soul!

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They used to say that knowledge is power. I used to think so, but I know now they mean money.

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This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction.

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