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

Don't cross the bridge til you come to it.

Music is the universal language of mankind.

See yonder little cloud, that, borne aloft So tenderly by the wind, floats fast away Over the snowy peaks!

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.

Not chance of birth or place has made us friends, Being oftentimes of different tongues and nations, But the endeavor for the selfsame ends, With the same hopes, and fears, and aspirations.

Behind the clouds is the sun still shining.