“We turn to dust, and all our mightiest works die too.”

To follow foolish precedents, and wink With both our eyes, is easier than to think.

Blest be the art that can immortalize,–the art that baffles time’s tyrannic claim to quench it.

Far happier are the dead methinks than they who look for death and fear it every day.

No traveler e’er reached that blest abode who found not thorns and briers in his road.

Vice stings us even in our pleasures, but virtue consoles us even in our pains.

Would I describe a preacher, I would express him simple, grave, sincere; In doctrine uncorrupt; in language plain, And plain in manner; decent, solemn, chaste,

A heretic, my dear sir, is a fellow who disagrees with you regarding something neither of you knows anything about.

Unless a love of virtue light the flame,

War’s a game, which, were their subjects wise, Kings would not play at.

Restraining prayer, we cease to fight; Prayer keeps the Christian’s armor bright; And Satan trembles when he sees The weakest saint upon his knees.

Built God a church and laughed His word to scorn.

All we behold is miracle.

Still ending, and beginning still.

Knowledge dwells In heads replete with thoughts of other men; Wisdom in minds attentive to their own.

Remorse, the fatal egg by pleasure laid, In every bosom where her nest is made, Hatched by the beams of truth, denies him rest, And proves a raging scorpion in his breast.

Grief is itself a medicine.

A mass of dust, world’s momentary slave, Is man, in state of our old Adam made, Soon born to die, soon flourishing to fade.

But the dust! And the clutter! My housewifely and scholarly instincts were equally offended.

The night sky in North Korea might be the most brilliant in northeast Asia, the only airspace spared the coal dust, Gobi Desert sand, and carbon monoxide choking the rest of the continent.

Look what a little vain dust we are!

Once upon a time there were three kittens, and their names were Mitten, Tom Kitten, and Moppet. They had dear little fur coats of their own; and they tumbled about the doorstep and played in the dust.

Our true buddha-nature has no shape. And the dust of affliction has no form.

The gospel humbles us into the dust and at the very same time exalts us to the heavens.

Man is a centaur, a tangle of flesh and mind, divine inspiration and dust.