Who hesitate and falter life away, and lose tomorrow the ground won today.
Resolve to be thyself...he who finds himself loses his misery!
We forget because we must and not because we will.
Journalism is literature in a hurry.
Bald as the bare mountain tops are bald, with a baldness full of grandeur.
The pursuit of the perfect, then, is the pursuit of sweetness and light.
The nice sense of measure is certainly not one of Nature's gifts to her English children ...we have all of us yielded to infatuation at some moment of our lives.
Nature, with equal mind, sees all her sons at play, sees man control the wind, the wind sweep man away.
This strange disease of modern life, with its sick hurry, its divided aims.
They who await no gifts from chance have conquered fate.
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