I know the lands are lit, with all the autumn blaze of Goldenrod.

When Time is spent, Eternity begins.

I shall be found with 'Indians' engraved on my brain when I am dead. A fire has been kindled within me, which will never go out.

Bee to the blossom, moth to the flame; Each to his passion; what's in a name?

O proudly name their names who bravely sail| To seek brave lost in Arctic snows and seas!

When love is at its best, one loves so much that he cannot forget.

Like a blind spinner in the sun,I tread my days:I know that all the threads will runAppointed ways.I know each day will bring its task,And being blind no more I ask.

If I could write a story that would do for the Indian one-hundredth part what 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' did for the Negro, I would be thankful the rest of my life.

Motherhood is priced Of God, at price no man may dare To lessen or misunderstand.

The woman who creates and sustains a home, and under whose hands children grow up to be strong and pure men and women, is a creator second only to God.

O sweet, delusive Noon, Which the morning climbs to find, O moment sped too soon, And morning left behind.

Being right is massively overrated, especially when it comes at the expense of being compassionate and kind.

The awareness of mortals falls short. As long as they're attached to appearances, they're unaware that their minds are empty. And by mistakenly clinging to the appearance of things they lose the Way.

Growth takes time. God knows that. I know that. And to my surprise, His abundance is mine in the process - not as a prize at the end.

Some of you had big dreams, but you had some disappointments & now you think it’s over. But God is saying, Begin again.

Another important thing to learn is that kids have a personality that has nothing to do with you.

A woman smells well when she smells of nothing.

You know I have loved him always. But we are very poor. Who, being loved, is poor? Oh, no one. I hate my riches. They are a burden.

A woman who knows her power has in her hands the key to her own happiness and success.

On I’ll pass, dragging my huge love behind me. On what feverish night, deliria-ridden, by what Goliaths was I begot – I, so big and by no one needed?

When all lies, deceit, pretense is stripped away, what remains? The truth of a painting, or a book or a man.