The love of learning, the sequestered nooks, And all the sweet serenity of books.

Under a spreading chestnut-tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands.

Man is unjust, but God is just; and finally justice triumphs.

There is no death! What seems so is transition; this life of mortal breath is but a suburb of the life elysian, whose portal we call Death.

The spring came suddenly, bursting upon the world as a child bursts into a room, with a laugh and a shout and hands full of flowers.

Ah! What would the world be to us If the children were no more? We should dread the desert behind us Worse than the dark before.

Joy, temperance, and repose, slam the door on the doctor's nose.