I love thee, as the good love heaven.

Art is the child of nature in whom we trace the features of the mothers face.

This is the place. Stand still, my steed,- Let me review the scene, And summon from the shadowy past The forms that once have been.

From labor there shall come forth rest.

Good-night! good-night! as we so oft have said Beneath this roof at midnight, in the days That are no more, and shall no more return. Thou hast but taken up thy lamp and gone to bed; I stay a little longer, as one stays To cover up the embers that still burn.

Today is the blocks with which we build.

People demand freedom only when they have no power.