O beautiful, awful summer day, what hast thou given, what taken away?

Love makes its record in deeper colors as we grow out of childhood into manhood.

Autumn arrives like a warrior with the stain of blood upon his brazen mail. His crimson scarf is rent. His scarlet banner drips with gore. His step is like a flail upon the threshing floor.

Intelligence and courtesy not always are combined; Often in a wooden house a golden room we find.

To be infatuated with the power of one's own intellect is an accident which seldom happens but to those who are remarkable for the want of intellectual power. Whenever Nature leaves a hole in a person's mind, she generally plasters it over with a thick coat of self-conceit.

As to the pure mind all things are pure, so to the poetic mind all things are poetical.

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