History repeats itself.
Our dead are never dead to us, until we have forgotten them.
Oh may I join the choir invisible Of those immortal dead who live again In minds made better by their presence.
Our words have wings, but fly not where we would.
We have had an unspeakably delightful journey, one of those journeys which seem to divide one's life in two, by the new ideas they suggest and the new views of interest they open.
Do we not all agree to call rapid thought and noble impulse by the name of inspiration?