Authors must not, like Chinese soldiers, expect to win victories by turning somersets in the air.
That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain.
The leaves of memory seemed to make A mournful rustling in the dark
The Wreck of the Hesperus But the father answered never a word, A frozen corpse was he.
Into each life some rain must fall.
A torn jacket is soon mended; but hard words bruise the heart of a child.