The two kinds of people on earth are the people who lift and the people who lean.

Better to wait and yearn, and still to wait, And die at last with unappeased desire, Than live to be the jest of such a fate, For that is my conception of hell-fire.

With every deed you are sowing a seed, though the harvest you may not see.

God sent us here to make mistakes

We ought to make the moments notes Of happy glad Thanksgiving; The hours and days, a silent praise Of music we are living.

Mourn not for the vanished ages with their grand, heroic men, who dwell in history's pages and live in the poets pen for the grandest times are before us and the world is yet to see the noblest work of this old earth in the men that are to be.

I knew it the first of the summer, I knew it the same at the end, That you and your love were plighted, But couldn't you be my friend?