Let him not boast who puts his armor on as he who puts it off, the battle done.

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

We waste our best years in distilling the sweetest flowers of life into potions which, after all, do not immortalize, but only intoxicate.

Like a French poem is life; being only perfect in structure when with the masculine rhymes mingled the feminine are.

From labor there shall come forth rest.

I shot an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight. I breathed a song into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For who has sight so keen and strong, That it can follow the flight of song? Long, long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend.

Then read from the treasured volume the poem of thy choice, and lend to the rhyme of the poet the beauty of thy voice.