I grow in worth, and wit, and sense, Unboding critic-pen, Or that eternal want of pence, Which vexes public men.

I sometimes find it half a sin, To put to words the grief i feel, For words like nature,half reveal, and half conceal the soul within.

A lie that is half-truth is the darkest of all lies.

So sad, so fresh the days that are no more.

For this alone on Death I wreak The wrath that garners in my heart: He put our lives so far apart We cannot hear each other speak.

the shell must break before the bird can fly.

Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new, That which they have done but earnest of the things which they shall do.