O little feet! that such long years Must wander on through hopes and fears, Must ache and bleed beneath your load; I, nearer to the wayside inn Where toil shall cease and rest begin, Am weary, thinking of your road!

But the nearer the dawn the darker the night, And by going wrong all things come right. Things have been mended that were worse, and the the worse, the nearer they are to mend.

Like black hulks the shadows of the great trees ride at anchor on the billowy sea of grass.

If the mind, that rules the body, ever so far forgets itself as to trample on its slave, the slave is never generous enough to forgive the injury, but will rise and smite the oppressor.

Defeat may be victory in disguise.

Ye are better than all the ballads That ever were sung or said; For ye are living poems, And all the rest are dead.

The prayer of Ajax was for light.