Hope is the thing that is left to us, in a bad time.

Hope is the last thing that dies in man; and though it be exceedingly deceitful, yet it is of this good use to us, that while we are traveling through life it conducts us in an easier and more pleasant way to our journey's end.

If there is any possible consolation in the tragedy of losing someone we love very much, it's the necessary hope that perhaps it was for the best.

Hope, the best comfort of our imperfect condition,

Hope is the deep orientation of the human soul that can be held at the darkest times.

Happiness is the only good, reason the only torch, justice the only worship, humanity the only religion, and love the only priest.

Hope is the pillar that holds up the world.

Remember that hope is a good thing, Red, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies.

Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul.

Hope is itself a species of happiness, and perhaps, the chief happiness which this world affords.

There is little we can point to in our lives as deserving anything but God's wrath. Our best moments have been mostly grotesque parodies. Our best loves have been almost always blurred with selfishness and deceit. But there is something to which we can point. Not anything that we ever did or were, but something that was done for us by another. Not our own lives, but the life of one who died in our behalf and yet is still alive. This is our only glory and our only hope. And the sound that it makes is the sound of excitement and gladness and laughter that floats through the night air from a great banquet.

He was fortified by a memory which kept only the good things and rejected the ill. Despite his sorrows, he had had a fair share of joys and these were ever fresh and accessible.

There is in the worst of fortune the best of chances for a happy change.

It was a glorious thing, to be given hope, when all had seemed lost.