That is the bitterest of all,--to wear the yoke of our own wrong-doing.
When we are dead : it is the living only who cannot be forgiven the living only from whom men's indulgence and reverence are held off, like the rain by the hard east wind .
A man's a man. But when you see a king, you see the work of many thousand men.
The floods of nonsense printed in the form of critical opinions seem to me a chief curse of the times, a chief obstacle to true culture.
A fine lady is a squirrel-headed thing, with small airs and small notions; about as applicable to the business of life as a pair of tweezers to the clearing of a forest.
The commonest man, who has his ounce of sense and feeling, is conscious of the difference between a lovely, delicate woman and a coarse one. Even a dog feels a difference in her presence.
Man may content himself with the applause of the world and the homage paid to his intellect, but woman's heart has holier idols.
I think any hardship is better than pretending to do what one is paid for, and never really doing it.
But with regard to critical occasions, it often happens that all moments seem comfortably remote until the last.
Keep true, never be ashamed of doing right.
Sympathetic people often don't communicate well, they back reflected images which hide their own depths.
Our passions do not live apart in locked chambers but dress in their small wardrobe of notions, bring their provisions to a common table and mess together, feeding out of the common store according to their appetite.
In the schoolroom her quick mind had taken readily that strong starch of unexplained rules and disconnected facts which saves ignorance from any painful sense of limpness.
Family likeness has often a deep sadness in it.
The wrong that rouses our angry passions finds only a medium in us; it passes through us like a vibration, and we inflict what we have suffered.
There are various orders of beauty, causing men to make fools of themselves in various styles, from the desperate to the sheepish; but there is one order of beauty which seems made to turn the heads not only of men, but of all intelligent mammals, even of women. It is a beauty like that of kittens, or very small downy ducks making gentle rippling noises with their soft bills, or babies just beginning to toddle and to engage in conscious mischief — a beauty with which you can never be angry, but that you feel ready to crush for inability to comprehend the state of mind into which it throws you.
Who has not felt the beauty of a woman's arm? The unspeakable suggestions of tenderness that lie in the dimpled elbow, and all the varied gently-lessening curves, down to the delicate wrist, with its tiniest, almost imperceptible nicks in the firm softness.
We must not inquire too curiously into motives. they are apt to become feeble in the utterance: the aroma is mixed with the grosser air. We must keep the germinating grain away from the light.
It is always fatal to have music or poetry interrupted.
Poetry and art and knowledge are sacred and pure.
Little children are still the symbol of the eternal marriage between love and duty.
The pride of the body is a barrier against the gifts that purify the soul.
It is impossible, to me at least, to be poetical in cold weather.
Shall we, because we walk on our hind feet, assume to ourselves only the privilege of imperishability?
It is better sometimes not to follow great reformers of abuses beyond the threshold of their homes.
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