Out of the bosom of the Air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, Over the woodlands brown and bare, Over the harvest-fields forsaken, Silent, and soft, and slow Descends the snow.

Sunday is the golden clasp that binds together the volume of the week.

Art is the child of nature in whom we trace the features of the mothers face.

Ripe in wisdom was he, but patient, and simple, and childlike.

Music is the universal language of mankind.

What heart has not acknowledged the influence of this hour, the sweet and soothing hour of twilight, the hour of love, the hour of adoration, the hour of rest, when we think of those we love only to regret that we have not loved them more dearly, when we remember our enemies only to forgive them.

Fear is the virtue of slaves; but the heart that loveth is willing.