I will be a man among men; and no longer a dreamer among shadows.

Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven, Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.

There is nothing holier in this life of ours than the first consciousness of love, the first fluttering of its silken wings.

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.

There is nothing perfectly secure but poverty.

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.

Our hearts are lamps for ever burning.