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

Not in the clamor of the crowded street, not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, but in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.

He spoke well who said that graves are the footprints of angels.

Men should soon make up their minds to be forgotten, and look about them, or within them, for some higher motive in what they do than the approbation of men, which is fame, namely, their duty; that they should be constantly and quietly at work, each in his sphere, regardless of effects, and leaving their fame to take care of itself.

He looks the whole world in the face for he owes not any man.

And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters

The Nile, forever new and old, Among the living and the dead, Its mighty, mystic stream has rolled.