That which we are, we are, and if we are ever to be any better, now is the time to begin.
Love lieth deep; Love dwells not in lip-depths.
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 golden guess is morning-star to the full round of truth.
The year is dying in the night.
I heard no longer The snowy-banded, dilettante, Delicate-handed priest intone.