Fate loves the fearless.

As life runs on, the road grows strange With faces new, and near the end The milestones into headstones change, ’Neath every one a friend.

Wut 's words to them whose faith an' truth On war's red techstone rang true metal; Who ventered life an' love an' youth For the gret prize o' death in battle?

Creativity is not the finding of a thing, but the making something out of it after it is found.

Life seems a jest of Fate's contriving.

Life is constantly weighing us in very sensitive scales, and telling every one of us precisely what his real weight is to the last grain of dust.

Most men make the voyage of life as if they carried sealed orders which they were not to open till they were fairly in mid-ocean.

Death is delightful. Death is dawn, The waking from a weary night Of fevers unto truth and light.

Folks never understand the folks they hate.