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

How beautiful the silent hour, when morning and evening thus sit together, hand in hand, beneath the starless sky of midnight!

Very hot and still the air was, Very smooth the gliding river, Motionless the sleeping shadows.

Nature paints not; In oils, but frescoes the great dome of heaven; With sunsets, and the lovely forms of clouds; And flying vapors.

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

Every man must patiently bide his time. He must wait -- not in listless idleness but in constant, steady, cheerful endeavors, always willing and fulfilling and accomplishing his task, that when the occasion comes he may be equal to the occasion.

In ourselves are triumph and defeat.