Sweet as the tender fragrance that survives, When martyred flowers breathe out their little lives, Sweet as a song that once consoled our pain, But never will be sung to us again, Is they remembrance. Now the hour of rest Hath come to thee. Sleep, darling: it is best.

If we could read the secret history of our enemies.

I venerate old age; and I love not the man who can look without emotion upon the sunset of life, when the dusk of evening begins to gather over the watery eye, and the shadows of twilight grow broader and deeper upon the understanding.

The greatest grace of a gift, perhaps, is that it anticipates and admits of no return.

Every man has a paradise around him till he sins, and the angel of an accusing conscience drives him from his Eden.

He that respects himself is safe from others. He wears a coat of mail that none can pierce.

In the long run men hit only what they aim at.