Today...the bluebirds, old and young, have revisited their box, as if they would fain repeat the summer without intervention of winter, if Nature would let them.

All endeavour calls for the ability to tramp the last mile, shape the last plan, endure the last hours toil.

What are men celebrating? They are all on a committee of arrangements, and hourly expect a speech from somebody. God is only the president of the day, and Webster is his orator.

The traveler must be born again on the road, and earn a passport from the elements.

Much verse fails of being poetry because it was not written exactly at the right crisis, though it may have been inconceivably near to it. It is only by a miracle that poetry is written at all. It is not recoverable thought, but a hue caught from a vaster receding thought.

Men have a respect for scholarship and learning greatly out of proportion to the use they commonly serve.

We need only travel enough to give our intellects an airing.