The day is done; and slowly from the scene the stooping sun upgathers his spent shafts, and puts them back into his golden quiver!

A boy's will is the wind's will.

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

Day, like a weary pilgrim, had reached the western gate of heaven, and Evening stooped down to unloose the latchets of his sandal shoon.

Ah, how good it feels! The hand of an old friend.

I venerate old age; and I love not the man who can look without emotion upon the sunset of life, when the dusk of evening begins to gather over the watery eye, and the shadows of twilight grow broader and deeper upon the understanding.

The soul...is audible, not visible.