Many a poem is marred by a superfluous verse.

We waste our best years in distilling the sweetest flowers of life into potions which, after all, do not immortalize, but only intoxicate.

Build today, then strong and sure, With a firm and ample base; And ascending and secure. Shall tomorrow find its place.

Under a spreading chestnut-tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands.

The thoughts of Youth are long, long thoughts

Music is the universal language of mankind.

To say the least, a town life makes one more tolerant and liberal in one's judgment of others.