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

Whoever benefits his enemy with straightforward intention that man's enemies will soon fold their hands in devotion.

Many have genius, but, wanting art, are forever dumb. The two must go together to form the great poet, painter, or sculptor.

In the mouths of many men soft words are like roses that soldiers put into the muzzles of their muskets on holidays.

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.

Midnight! the outpost of advancing day! The frontier town and citadel of night!

This is the place. Stand still, my steed,- Let me review the scene, And summon from the shadowy past The forms that once have been.