Resolve to be thyself; and know, that he Who finds himself, loses his misery.
Journalism is literature in a hurry.
And we forget because we must and not because we will.
Truth sits upon the lips of dying men.
Home of lost causes, and forsaken beliefs, and unpopular names, and impossible loyalties!
Nature, with equal mind, Sees all her sons at play; Sees man control the wind, The wind sweep man away.
Our society distributes itself into Barbarians, Philistines, and Populace; and America is just ourselves, with the Barbarians quite left out, and the Populace nearly.
The pursuit of perfection, then, is the pursuit of sweetness and light.
Bald as the bare mountain tops are bald, with a baldness full of grandeur.
It is so small a thing to have enjoyed the sun, to have lived light in the spring, to have loved, to have thought, to have done.