Not chance of birth or place has made us friends, Being oftentimes of different tongues and nations, But the endeavor for the selfsame ends, With the same hopes, and fears, and aspirations.

Morality without religion is only a kind of dead reckoning - an endeavor to find our place on a cloudy sea by measuring the distance we have run, but without any observation of the heavenly bodies.

A word that has been said may be unsaid-it is but air. But when a deed is done, it cannot be undone, nor can our thoughts reach out to all the mischiefs that may follow.

And as she looked around, she saw how Death the consoler, Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it forever.

Fair words gladden so many a heart.

Music is the language spoken by angels.

The Nile, forever new and old, Among the living and the dead, Its mighty, mystic stream has rolled.