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The workings of the human heart are the profoundest mystery of the universe. One moment they make us despair of our kind, and the next we see in them the reflection of the divine image.

The thing is to appreciate the fragile wonder of it all, down to the last breath, down to the dying embers of consciousness.

An inspiration - a long, deep breath of the pure air of thought - could alone give health to the heart.

There is something in humility which strangely exalts the heart.

The human heart has hidden treasures, In secret kept, in silence sealed; The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleasures, Whose charms were broken if revealed.

I have a call to speak, to write, to do sort of deep-heart surgery in people's lives.

Since my earliest childhood a barb of sorrow has lodged in my heart. As long as it stays I am ironic if it is pulled out I shall die.

There are moments in life, when the heart is so full of emotion That if by chance it be shaken, or into its depths like a pebble Drops some careless word, it overflows, and its secret, Spilt on the ground like water, can never be gathered together.

The human heart is as a frail craft on which we wish to reach the stars.

And if thought and emotion can persist in this way so long after the brain that sent them forth has crumpled into dust, how vitally important it must be to control their very birth in the heart, and guard them with the keenest possible restraint.