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.

Being all fashioned of the self-same dust, let us be merciful as well as just

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

I have an affection for a great city. I feel safe in the neighborhood of man, and enjoy the sweet security of the streets.

Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.

The counterfeit and counterpart of Nature is reproduced in art.

The love of learning, the sequestered nooks, And all the sweet serenity of books.