The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight.

In the long run men hit only what they aim at.

Fear is the virtue of slaves; but the heart that loveth is willing.

But oftentimes celestial benedictions Assume this dark disguise.

Ah, how good it feels! The hand of an old friend.

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

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.