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.

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

We cannot be kind to each other here for even an hour. We whisper, and hint, and chuckle and grin at our brother's shame; however you take it we men are a little breed.

But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.

The vow that binds too strictly snaps itself.

There lives more faith in honest doubt, believe me, than in half the creeds.

A smile abroad is often a scowl at home.