The many fail: the one succeeds.

That which we are, we are, and if we are ever to be any better, now is the time to begin.

We are all a part of every person we have ever met.

O Blackbird! sing me something well: While all the neighbors shoot thee round, I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, Where thou may'st warble, eat and dwell.

Happy he With such a mother! faith in womankind Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high Comes easy to him; and tho' he trip and fall, He shall not blind his soul with clay.

The city is built To music, therefore never built at all, And therefore built forever.

I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley.