Whatever poet, orator, or sage may say of it, old age is still old age.

Time, like a preacher in the days of the Puritans, turned the hour-glass on his high pulpit, the church belfry.

Take them, O Death! and bear away Whatever thou canst call thine own! Thine image, stamped upon this clay, Doth give thee that, but that alone!

Sometimes we may learn more from a man's errors, than from his virtues.

The morrow was a bright September morn; The earth was beautiful as if newborn; There was nameless splendor everywhere, That wild exhilaration in the air, Which makes the passers in the city street Congratulate each other as they meet.

Ah, to build, to build! That is the noblest of all the arts.

O thou sculptor, painter, poet! Take this lesson to thy heart: That is best which lieth nearest; Shape from that thy work of art.