There are things of which I may not speak; There are dreams that cannot die; There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak, And bring a pallor into the cheek, And a mist before the eye.
Our hearts are lamps for ever burning.
Enthusiasm begets enthusiasm.
Sunday is the golden clasp that binds together the volume of the week.
The air is full of farewells to the dying. And mournings for the dead.
One half the world must sweat and groan that the other half may dream.