Youth comes but once in a lifetime.
We have not wings we cannot soar; but, we have feet to scale and climb, by slow degrees, by more and more, the cloudy summits of our time.
A boy's will is the wind's will.
Intelligence and courtesy not always are combined; Often in a wooden house a golden room we find.
Only a look and a voice; then darkness again and silence.
The day is done; and slowly from the scene the stooping sun upgathers his spent shafts, and puts them back into his golden quiver!