Let us then be up and doing, With a heart for any fate, Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait.

The hooded clouds, like friars, Tell their beads in drops of rain.

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

If the mind, that rules the body, ever so far forgets itself as to trample on its slave, the slave is never generous enough to forgive the injury, but will rise and smite the oppressor.

If you would hit the mark, you must aim a little above it.

I hear the wind among the trees Playing the celestial symphonies; I see the branches downward bent, Like keys of some great instrument.

Chill air and wintry winds! My ear has grown familiar with your song; I hear it in the opening year, I listen, and it cheers me long.