“Vain are the thousand creeds That move men’s hearts, unutterably vain; Worthless as withered weeds, Or idlest froth amid the boundless main.”

Hereafter she is only my sister in name; not because I disown her, but because she has disowned me.

I despise him for himself, and hate him for the memories he revives!

I gave him my heart, and he took and pinched it to death; and flung it back to me.

Worthless as wither’d weeds.

You know, I’ve had a bitter, hard life since I last heard your voice and if I’ve survived it’s all because of you.

There is not room for Death, Nor atom that his might could render void: Thou – Thou art Being and Breath, And what Thou art may never be destroyed.

They forgot everything the minute they were together again.

He might as well plant an oak in a flowerpot, and expect it to thrive, as imagine he can restore her to vigour in the soil of his shallow cares!

If he loved with all the powers of his puny being, he couldn’t love as much in eighty years as I could in a day.

Honest people don’t hide their deeds.

Proud people breed sad sorrows for themselves.

I’m wearying to escape into that glorious world, and to be always there; not seeing it dimly through tears, and yearning for it through the walls of an aching heart; but really with it, and in it.

He was attached by ties stronger than reason could break — chains, forged by habit, which it would be cruel to attempt to loosen.

I have to remind myself to breathe — almost to remind my heart to beat!

Thoughts are tyrants that return again and again to torment us.

Shall Earth no more inspire thee, Thou lonely dreamer now?

All the animals, the plants, the minerals, even other kinds of men, are being broken and reassembled every day, to preserve an elite few, who are the loudest to theorize on freedom, but the least free of all.

Fondnesse it were for any being free, To covet fetters, though they golden bee.

Who would ever care to do brave deed, Or strive in virtue others to excel, If none should yield him his deserved meed Due praise, that is the spur of doing well? For if good were not praised more than ill, None would choose goodness of his own free will.

None can love freedom heartily, but good men; the rest love not freedom, but license.

What a silly fellow must he be who would do the devil’s work for free.

Sluggish idleness–the nurse of sin.

What is freedom of expression? Without the freedom to offend, it ceases to exist.

Two things form the bedrock of any open society – freedom of expression and rule of law. If you don’t have those things, you don’t have a free country.