Softly the evening came /with the sunset/.

Three silences there are: the first of speech, the second of desire, the third of thought.

Music is the language spoken by angels.

The morning pouring everywhere, its golden glory on the air.

The secret studies of an author are the sunken piers upon which is to rest the bridge of his fame, spanning the dark waters of oblivion. They are out of sight, but without them no superstructure can stand secure.

Death is the chillness that precedes the dawn; We shudder for a moment, then awake In the broad sunshine of the other life.

No tears Dim the sweet look that Nature wears.