Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new.

All experience is an arch wherethro' gleams that untraveled world whose margins fade forever and forever as we move.

A doubtful throne is ice on summer seas.

Yonder cloud That rises upward always higher, And onward drags a laboring breast, And topples round the dreary west, A looming bastion fringed with fire.

Though thou wert scattered to the wind, Yet is there plenty of the kind.

That man's the best cosmopolite Who loves his native country best.

Her eyes are homes of silent prayers.