“The busy bee has no time for sorrow.”

And Priests in black gowns, were walking their rounds, And binding with briars, my joys & desires.

The tigers of wrath are wiser than the horses of instruction.

Never seek to tell thy love; Love that never told can be. For the gentle wind does move silently invisibly.

Sooner strangle an infant in its cradle than nurse unacted desires.

Prisons are built with stones of Law, Brothels with bricks of Religion

Those who restrain desire do so because theirs is weak enough to be restrained.

The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom. You never know what is enough until you know what is more than enough.

He whose face gives no light, shall never become a star.

I myself do nothing. The Holy Spirit accomplishes all through me.

The weak in courage is strong in cunning.

For I dance And drink and sing, Till some blind hand Shall brush my wing.

For all eternity, I forgive you and you forgive me.

Improvement makes strait roads, but the crooked roads without Improvement, are roads of Genius.

Everything to be imagined is an image of truth.

The apple tree never asks the beech how he shall grow, nor the lion, the horse, how he shall take his prey.

And is he honest who resists his genius or conscience only for the sake of present ease or gratification

The longer and more carefully we look at a funny story, the sadder it becomes.

Americans, in general, are ignorant, bigoted, and deeply unhappy with their declining incomes.

Sadness does not inhere in things; it does not reach us from the world and through mere contemplation of the world. It is a product of our own thought. We create it out of whole cloth.

There is a collective as well as an individual humor inclining peoples to sadness or cheerfulness, making them see things in bright or somber lights. In fact, only society can pass a collective opinion on the value of human life; for this the individual is incompetent.

That is sad until one recalls how many bad books the world may yet be spared because of the busyness of writers.

Unhappy is he to whom the memories of childhood bring only fear and sadness.

Oh! The good times when we were so unhappy.

Are there not some places where we seem to breathe sadness? – why, we cannot tell. It is a chain of recollections – an idea which carries you back to other times, to other places – which, very likely, have no connection with the present time and place.