I hold that a man had better be dead than alive when his work is done.

Women and men in the crowd meet and mingle, Yet with itself every soul standeth single.

I sit where the leaves of the maple and the gnarled and knotted gum are circling and drifting around me.

Nothing in this low and ruined world bears the meek impress of the Son of God so surely as forgiveness.

Not what we think, but what we do, / Makes saints of us: all stiff and cold, / The outlines of the corpse show through / The cloth of gold.

Even for the dead I will not bind my soul to grief, death cannot long divide; for is it not as if the rose that climbed my garden wall had bloomed the other side?

True worth is in being, not seeming- In doing, each day that goes by, Some little good, not in the dreaming Of great things to do by and by. For whatever men say in their blindness, And spite of the fancies of youth, There's nothing so kingly as kindness, And nothing so royal as truth.