Tell me, ye wingèd winds That round my pathway roar, Know ye not some spot Where mortals weep no more?

An arrow may fly through the air and leave no trace; but an ill thought leaves a trail like a serpent.

There's a fount about to stream, There's a light about to beam, There's a warmth about to glow, There's a flower about to blow; There's a midnight blackness changing Into gray; Men of thought and men of action, Clear the way.

Truth . . . and if mine eyes Can bear its blaze, and trace its symmetries, Measure its distance, and its advent wait, I am no prophet - I but calculate.

Every age has its peculiar folly: Some scheme, project, or fantasy into which it plunges, spurred on by the love of gain, the necessity of excitement, or the force of imitation.

He who has mingled in the fray of duty that the brave endure, must have made foes. If you have none, small is the work that you have done.

The king can drink the best of wine -So can I;And has enough when he would dine -So have I;And can not order rain or shine -Nor can I.Then where's the difference - let me see -Betwixt my lord the king and me?