“All the live murmur of a summer’s day.”

On the breast of that huge Mississippi of falsehood called History, a foam-bell more or less is no consequence.

One thing only has been lent to youth and age in common–discontent.

And we forget because we must and not because we will.

Conduct is three-fourths of our life and its largest concern.

Others abide our question. Thou art free. We ask and ask. Thou smilest and art still, Out-topping knowledge.

Culture is both an intellectual phenomenon and a moral one

Home of lost causes, and forsaken beliefs, and unpopular names, and impossible loyalties!

I knew the mass of men conceal’d Their thoughts, for fear that if reveal’d They would by other men be met With blank indifference.

The eternal not ourselves that makes for righteousness.

Who hesitate and falter life away, and lose tomorrow the ground won today.

Time, so complain’d of, Who to no one man Shows partiality, Brings round to all men Some undimm’d hours.

The bent of our time is towards science, towards knowing things as they are.

Life is the application of noble and profound ideas to life.

Culture, then, is a study of perfection, and perfection which insists on becoming something rather than in having something, in an inward condition of the mind and spirit, not in an outward set of circumstances.

To thee only God granted A heart ever new: To all always open; To all always true.

Truth sits upon the lips of dying men.

We forget cruelty and past betrayal, Heedless of where the next bright bolt may fall.

Entrance and exit wounds are silvered clean, The track aches only when the rain reminds. The one-legged man forgets his leg of wood, The one-armed man his jointed wooden arm. The blinded man sees with his ears and hands As much or more than once with both his eyes.

There’s a cool web of language winds us in, Retreat from too much joy or too much fear: We grow sea-green at last and coldly die In brininess and volubility.

Entrance and exit wounds are silvered clean, The track aches only when the rain reminds. The one-legged man forgets his leg of wood, The one-armed man his jointed wooden arm. The blinded man sees with his ears and hands As much or more than once with both his eyes.

There’s a cool web of language winds us in, Retreat from too much joy or too much fear: We grow sea-green at last and coldly die In brininess and volubility.

Tis not to see the world As from a height, with rapt prophetic eyes, And heart profoundly stirred; And weep, and feel the fullness of the past, The years that are not more.

In college I didn’t dress up every day, for class or stuff like that, but when it came time to do certain things I’d dress up for sure.

This I regard as history’s highest function, to let no worthy action be uncommemorated, and to hold out the reprobation of posterity as a terror to evil words and deeds.