He looks the whole world in the face for he owes not any man.

And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares, that infest the day, Shall fold their tents like the Arabs, and silently steal away.

The poor too often turn away unheard, From hearts that shut against them with a sound That will be heard in heaven.

In ourselves are triumph and defeat.

Every great poem is in itself limited by necessity, but in its suggestions unlimited and infinite.

In old age our bodies are worn-out instruments, on which the soul tries in vain to play the melodies of youth. But because the instrument has lost its strings, or is out of tune, it does not follow that the musician has lost his skill.

I shot an arrow into the air, it fell to earth, I knew not where.