How like they are to human things!

In this world a man must either be anvil or hammer.

What child has a heart to sing in this capricious clime of ours, when spring comes sailing in from the sea, with wet and heavy cloud-sails and the misty pennon of the east-wind nailed to the mast.

Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, our faith triumphant o’er our fears, are all with thee – are all with thee!

Gone are the living, but the dead remain, And not neglected; for a hand unseen, Scattering its bounty like a summer rain, Still keeps their graves and their remembrance green.

If we could read the secret history of our enemies.

Time, like a preacher in the days of the Puritans, turned the hour-glass on his high pulpit, the church belfry.