All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

If there be a regal solitude, it is a sick-bed. How the patient lords it there!

A child's nature is too serious a thing to admit of its being regarded as a mere appendage to another being.

Riddle of destiny, who can show What thy short visit meant, or know What thy errand here below?

Books which are no books.

The red-letter days, now become, to all intents and purposes, dead-letter days.

As down in the sunless retreats of the ocean Sweet flowers are springing no mortal can see, So deep in my soul the still prayer of devotion, Unheard by the world, rises silent to Thee. As still to the star of its worship, though clouded, The needle points faithfully o'er the dim sea, So dark when I roam in this wintry world shrouded, The hope of my spirit turns trembling to Thee.