It is autumn; not without But within me is the cold. Youth and spring are all about; It is I that have grown old.

Prayer is innocence's friend; and willingly flieth incessant 'twist the earth and the sky, the carrier-pigeon of heaven.

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.

We are all architects of faith, ever living in these walls of time.

To be infatuated with the power of one's own intellect is an accident which seldom happens but to those who are remarkable for the want of intellectual power. Whenever Nature leaves a hole in a person's mind, she generally plasters it over with a thick coat of self-conceit.

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

The holiest of holidays are those kept by ourselves in silence and apart; The secret anniversaries of the heart.