My wind is turned to bitter north, That was so soft a south before; My sky, that shone so sunny bright, With foggy gloom is clouded o'er My gay green leaves are yellow-black, Upon the dank autumnal floor; For love, departed once, comes back No more again, no more.

That out of sight is out of mind is true of most we leave behind.

Whither depart the souls of the brave that die in the battle, Die in the lost, lost fight, for the cause that perishes with them?

Action will furnish belief,-but will that belief be the true one? This is the point, you know.

The highest political buzz word is not liberty, equality, fraternity or solidarity; it is service.

Grace is given of god, but knowledge is bought in the market.

And almost everyone when age, disease, or sorrows strike him, inclines to think there is a God, or something very like him.