There are like to be short graces where the devil plays host.

Our spirits grow gray before our hairs.

There was a little man, and he had a little soul; And he said, Little Soul, let us try, try, try!

Is the world all grown up? Is childhood dead? Or is there not in the bosom of the wisest and the best some of the child's heart left, to respond to its earliest enchantments?

Oh call it by some better name, For friendship sounds too cold.

I am determined that my children shall be brought up in their father's religion, if they can find out what it is.

We are nothing; less than nothing, and dreams. We are only what might have been.