And when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the silence.

Love makes its record in deeper colors as we grow out of childhood into manhood; as the Emperors signed their names in green ink when under age, but when of age, in purple.

Ye are better than all the ballads That ever were sung or said; For ye are living poems, And all the rest are dead.

The life of a man consists not in seeing visions and in dreaming dreams, but in active charity and in willing service.

They are dead; but they live in each Patriot's breast, And their names are engraven on honor's bright crest.

Some must follow and some command, through all are made oclay.

There is nothing holier in this life of ours than the first consciousness of love, the first fluttering of its silken wings.