O sweet, delusive Noon, Which the morning climbs to find, O moment sped too soon, And morning left behind.

Most men call fretting a minor fault, a foible, and not a vice. There is no vice except drunkenness which can so utterly destroy the peace, the happiness of a hoe.

I shall be found with 'Indians' engraved on my brain when I am dead. A fire has been kindled within me, which will never go out.

Bee to the blossom, moth to the flame; Each to his passion; what's in a name?

There is nothing so skillful in its own defense as imperious pride.

The goldenrod is yellow, The corn is turning brown, The trees in apple orchards With fruit are bending down.

Now and then one sees a face which has kept its smile pure and undefiled. Such a smile transfigures; such a smile, if the artful but know it, is the greatest weapon a face can have.