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

I venerate old age; and I love not the man who can look without emotion upon the sunset of life, when the dusk of evening begins to gather over the watery eye, and the shadows of twilight grow broader and deeper upon the understanding.

With many readers, brilliancy of style passes for affluence of thought; they mistake buttercups in the grass for immeasurable gold mines under ground.

In the elder days of art Builders wrought with greatest care Each minute and unseen part, For the Gods are everywhere

The morning pouring everywhere, its golden glory on the air.

Music is the language spoken by angels.

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