Midnight! the outpost of advancing day! The frontier town and citadel of night!

Is this is a dream? O, if it be a dream, Let me sleep on, and do not wake me yet!

The holiest of holidays are those kept by ourselves in silence and apart; The secret anniversaries of the heart.

For it is the fate of a woman Long to be patient and silent, to wait like a ghost that is speechless, Till some questioning voice dissolves the spell of its silence. Hence is the inner life of so many suffering women Sunless and silent and deep, like subterranean rivers Runnng through caverns of darkness.

No man is so poor as that. As well might the mountain streamlets say they have nothing worth giving to the sea, because they are not rivers. Give what you have. To some one, it may be better than you dare to think.

As I gaze upon the sea! All the old romantic legends, all my dreams, come back to me.

We have not wings we cannot soar; but, we have feet to scale and climb, by slow degrees, by more and more, the cloudy summits of our time.