Time is the life of the soul.

But oftentimes celestial benedictions Assume this dark disguise.

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

In the mouths of many men soft words are like roses that soldiers put into the muzzles of their muskets on holidays.

The thoughts of Youth are long, long thoughts

I hear the wind among the trees Playing the celestial symphonies; I see the branches downward bent, Like keys of some great instrument.

Ah! What would the world be to us If the children were no more? We should dread the desert behind us Worse than the dark before.