No noble lover but girds himself for a second struggle the more resolutely for knowing that his noble mistress rejoiced in his first conquest.

Frost itself is not more destructive to harvest fields than harshness is to the creative faculties.

Strange that Florence gave Dante exile in exchange for his immortal poem! Strange that London gave Milton threats of imprisonment for the manuscript of "Paradise Lost!" Passing strange that until his career was nearly run universities visited upon John Ruskin only scorn and contumely, that ruined his health and broke his heart, withholding the wreath until, as he said pathetically, his only "pleasure was in memory, his ambition in heaven," and he knew not what to do with his laurel leaves save "lay them wistfully upon his mother's grave." In every age the critics that have refused honor to its worthies, living, have heaped gifts high upon the graves of its dead.
That generation and individual must be far from perfect that is characterized by the presence of harshness and the absence of gentleness.

With a great blare of trumpets our century has been praised for its ingenuity, its wealth and comforts, its instruments, refinement and culture.

But history tells of no man who has carried his genius up to such supreme excellence that society has forgotten his vice or forgiven the faults that marred his rare gifts.