Often times we call a man [or woman] cold when he [or she] is only sad.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting.

Spake full well, in language quaint and olden, One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, When he called the flowers, so blue and golden, Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine.

That tree is very old, but I never saw prettier blossoms on it than it now bears. That tree grows new wood each year. Like that apple tree, I try to grow a new little wood each year.

Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.

The air is full of farewells to the dying. And mournings for the dead.

They are dead; but they live in each Patriot's breast, And their names are engraven on honor's bright crest.