Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; Thy fate is the common fate of all, Into each life some rain must fall

O thou sculptor, painter, poet! Take this lesson to thy heart: That is best which lieth nearest; Shape from that thy work of art.

The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.

Critics are sentinels in the grand army of letters, stationed at the corners of newspapers and reviews, to challenge every new author.

The country is not priest-ridded, but press-ridden.

A torn jacket is soon mended; but hard words bruise the heart of a child.

A single conversation across the table with a wise man is better than ten years mere study of books.