Sunday is the golden clasp that binds together the volume of the week.

That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain.

Today is the blocks with which we build.

Look not mournfully into the past, it comes not back again. Wisely improve the present, it is thine. Go forth to meet the shadowy future without fear and with a manly heart.

It is foolish to pretend that one is fully recovered from a disappointed passion. Such wounds always leave a scar.

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

Ah! What would the world be to us If the children were no more? We should dread the desert behind us Worse than the dark before.