Some must follow and some command, through all are made oclay.

There's nothing in this world so sweet as love. And next to love the sweetest thing is hate.

Not in the clamor of the crowded street, not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, but in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.

The greatest grace of a gift, perhaps, is that it anticipates and admits of no return.

Sail on, O Ship of State! Sail on, O Union, strong and great.

The first pressure of sorrow crushes out from our hearts the best wine; afterwards the constant weight of it brings forth bitterness, the taste and stain from the lees of the vat.

Sweet as the tender fragrance that survives, When martyred flowers breathe out their little lives, Sweet as a song that once consoled our pain, But never will be sung to us again, Is they remembrance. Now the hour of rest Hath come to thee. Sleep, darling: it is best.