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

No man is so poor as to have nothing worth giving.

Art is the gift of God, and must be used unto His glory.

If we love one another, nothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mischances may happen.

Every great poem is in itself limited by necessity, but in its suggestions unlimited and infinite.

O suffering, sad humanity! O ye afflicted ones, who lie Steeped to the lips in misery, Longing, yet afraid to die, Patient, though sorely tried!

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.