Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough Gleams that untraveled world whose margin fades Forever and forever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnished, not to shine in use! As though to breathe were life!

As the husband is, the wife is.

He makes no friend who never made a foe.

Men may come and men may go but I go on forever.

On all things created remaineth the half-effaced signature of God, Somewhat of fair and good, though blotted by the finger of corruption.

He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse.

Ring out the false, ring in the true.