We sometimes congratulate ourselves at the moment of waking from a troubled dream; it may be so the moment after death.

What is the voice of song, when the world lacks the ear of taste?

What other dungeon i^ so dark as one's own heart! What jailer so inexorable as one’s self!

What we call real estate—the solid ground to build a house on—is the broad foundation on which nearly all the guilt of this world rests.

What we did had a consecration of its own.

Words -- so innocent and powerless as they are, as standing in a dictionary, how potent for good and evil they become in the hands of one who knows how to combine them.