All Nature Is The Temple; Earth The

We Cannot Have Two Hearts, One For The Animals And One For Men. In Cruelty Towards The Former And Cruelty To The Latter There Is No Difference But In The Victim.

Ink Is The Transcript Of Thought.

Private Passions Tire And Exhaust Themselves, Public Ones Never.

Sentiment Is The Poetry Of The Imagination.

What Is Our Life But A Succession Of Preludes To That Unknown Song Whose First Solemn Note Is Sounded By Death?