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

Oh, what a glory doth this world put on, for him who with a fervent heart goes forth under the bright and glorious sky, and looks on duties well performed, and days well spent.

Silence and solitude, the soul's best friends.

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.

I hear the wind among the trees Playing the celestial symphonies; I see the branches downward bent, Like keys of some great instrument.

What seems to us but dim funeral tapers may be heaven's distant lamps.

Authors must not, like Chinese soldiers, expect to win victories by turning somersets in the air.