“It is a very funny thing that the sleepier you are, the longer you take about getting to bed.”

The fact that our heart yearns for something Earth can’t supply is proof that Heaven must be our home.

He died not for men, but for each man. If each man had been the only man made, He would have done no less.

In such a fearful world, we need a fearless church.

You can’t go back and change the beginning, but you can start where you are and change the ending.

Nothing you have not given away will ever really be yours.

If you never take risks, you’ll never accomplish great things. Everybody dies, but not everyone has lived.

What draws people to be friends is that they see the same truth. They share it.

She’s the sort of woman who lives for others – you can tell the others by their hunted expression.

Mere change is not growth. Growth is the synthesis of change and continuity, and where there is no continuity there is no growth.

Education without values, as useful as it is, seems rather to make man a more clever devil.

If you live for the next world, you get this one in the deal; but if you live only for this world, you lose them both.

Love is unselfishly choosing for another’s highest good.

God wants a child’s heart and a grownup’s head.

Adventures are never fun while you’re having them.

For pride is spiritual cancer: it eats up the very possibility of love, or contentment, or even common sense.

We never find out the strength of the evil impulse inside us until we try to fight it.

The other night I was lying in bed, looking up at the stars, and I wondered, ‘Where the hell is my roof?

Before you go to bed; thank god for you still have a bed.

When I was a child, I used to fear monsters under the bed. I have since learned that most monsters are found within. And they are always worth fighting.

I find I can get so much done between midnight and 4 a.m. Everything is quiet, no one is disturbing me, and if I go to bed then, I just lie awake thinking of ideas. They are very creative hours for me. One night a week I crash out, though.

The bed was the canvas, we were the art.

I have made my bed In charnels and on coffins, where black death Keeps record of the trophies won.

The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing, The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying, And the Year On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead, Is lying.

And when thou art weary I’ll find thee a bed, Of mosses and flowers to pillow thy head.