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

The nurse sleeps sweetly, hired to watch the sick, / whom, snoring, she disturbs.

Knowledge is proud that it knows so much; wisdom is humble that it knows no more.

This fond attachment to the well-known place Whence first we started into life’s long race.

I venerate the man whose heart is warm, Whose hands are pure, whose doctrine and whose life, Coincident, exhibit lucid proof That he is honest in the sacred cause.

The rich are too indolent, the poor too weak, to bear the insupportable fatigue of thinking.

Who loves a garden loves a greenhouse too.

Books are not seldom talismans and spells.

Ceremony leads her bigots forth, prepared to fight for shadows of no worth.

The path of sorrow, and that path alone, leads to the land where sorrow is unknown.

I am out of humanity’s reach.I must finish my journey alone,Never hear the sweet music of speech;I start at the sound of my own.

Remorse, the fatal egg that pleasure laid.

While truths, on which eternal things depend, can hardly find a single friend.

Pleasure admitted in undue degree, enslaves the will, nor leaves the judgment free.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, But trust Him for His grace; Behind a frowning providence He hides a smiling face. His purposes will ripen fast, Unfolding every hour;

Thus happiness depends, as nature shows, less on exterior things than most suppose.

Time, as he passes us, has a dove’s wing, Unsoil’d, and swift, and of a silken sound.

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.

Worry, doubt, fear and despair are the enemies which slowly bring us down to the ground and turn us to dust before we die.

… if they [your children] write their names in the dust on the furniture, don’t let them put the year.