The true poet is a friendly man. He takes to his arms even cold and inanimate things, and rejoices in his heart.

Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.

Spake full well, in language quaint and olden, One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, When he called the flowers, so blue and golden, Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine.

The Nile, forever new and old, Among the living and the dead, Its mighty, mystic stream has rolled.

Life is the gift of God, and is divine.

Oh, what a glory doth this world put on, for him who with a fervent heart goes forth under the bright and glorious sky, and looks on duties well performed, and days well spent.

Something the heart must have to cherish, Must love and joy and sorrow learn; Something with passion clasp, or perish And in itself to ashes burn.