You never can tell when you send a word, Like an arrow shot from a bow By an archer blind, be it cruel or kind, Just where it may chance to go!

For every hour of pain I have had a day of pleasure. For every moment of worry, an hour of content.

A poor original is better than a good imitation.

And let its meaning permeate each day. Whatever comes, This too shall pass away.

No one will grieve because your lips are dumb.

Wiped the cold dew-drops from his cheek And sought the mourner's side again. "Once more, dear lady, I must speak: Your last remaining son was slain Just at the closing of the fight; Twas he who sent me here to-night." "God knows," the man said afterward, "The fight itself was not so hard."

There is room in the halls of pleasure for a large and lordly train, but one by one we must all file on through the narrow aisles of pain.