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

Oh, how short are the days! How soon the night overtakes us!

It was Autumn, and incessant Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves, And, like living coals, the apples Burned among the withering leaves.

A boy's will is the wind's will, and the thought's of youth are long, long thoughhts

It was a high counsel that I once heard given to a young person, - always do what you are afraid to do.

The true poet is a friendly man. He takes to his arms even cold and inanimate things, and rejoices in his heart.

No literature is complete until the language it was written in is dead.