Today is the blocks with which we build.

I am never indifferent, and never pretend to be, to what people say or think of my books. They are my children, and I like to have them liked.

Intelligence and courtesy not always are combined; Often in a wooden house a golden room we find.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each tomorrow Find us farther than today.

Take them, O Death! and bear away Whatever thou canst call thine own! Thine image, stamped upon this clay, Doth give thee that, but that alone!

All was silent as before - All silent save the dripping rain.

The leaves of memory seemed to make A mournful rustling in the dark