Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.

The still affection of the heart Became an outward breathing type, That into stillness past again, And left a want unknown before; Although the loss had brought us pain, That loss but made us love the more.

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

So many worlds, so much to do, so little done, such things to be.

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

Some full-breasted swan That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood With swarthy webs.

If I had a flower for every time I thought of you...I could walk through my garden forever.