“I like not only to be loved, but to be told that I am loved; the realm of silence is large enough beyond the grave.”

Enveloped in a common mist, we seem to walk in clearness ourselves, and behold only the mist that enshrouds others.

Any coward can fight a battle when he’s sure of winning.

It is surely better to pardon too much, than to condemn too much.

The right to rebellion is the right to seek a higher rule, and not to wander in mere lawlessness.

Marriage must be a relation either of sympathy or of conquest.

It seems to me we can never give up longing and wishing while we are thoroughly alive. There are certain things we feel to be beautiful and good, and we must hunger after them.

Every limit is a beginning as well as an ending.

Men outlive their love, but they don’t outlive the consequences of their recklessness.

Death is the king of this world: ‘Tis his park where he breeds life to feed him. Cries of pain are music for his banquet.

There are many victories worse than a defeat.

Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns.

Only in the agony of parting do we look into the depths of love.

We are contented with our day when we have been able to bear our grief in silence, and act as if we were not suffering.

Those who trust us educate us.

It is as useless to fight against the interpretations of ignorance as to whip the fog.

That by desiring what is perfectly good, even when we don’t quite know what it is and cannot do what we would, we are part of the divine power against evil — widening the skirts of light and making the struggle with darkness narrower.

Look on the grave where thou must sleep Thy last, and strongest foe; It is endurance not to weep, If that repose seem woe.

One must accept the fact that we have only one companion in this world, a companion who accompanies us from the cradle to the grave – our own self. Get on good terms with that companion – learn to live with yourself.

Indeed, the hereditary gift of prophecy will go to the grave with me.

Pretty girls make graves.

Love’s very pain is sweet, But its reward is in the world divine Which, if not here, it builds beyond the grave.

Years are only garments, and you either wear them with style all your life, or else you go dowdy to the grave.

This body is a tent which for a space Does the pure soul with kingly presence grace; When he departs, comes the tent-pitcher, Death, Strikes it, and moves to a new halting-place.

We are in truth but pieces on this chess board of life, which in the end we leave, only to drop one by one into the grave of nothingness.