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

Ne speaketh not; and yet there lies a conversation in his eyes.

A boy's will is the wind's will, and the thought's of youth are long, long thoughhts

Man is always more than he can know of himself; consequently, his accomplishments, time and again, will come as a surprise to him.

It is a beautiful trait in the lover's character, that they think no evil of the object loved.

Not chance of birth or place has made us friends, Being oftentimes of different tongues and nations, But the endeavor for the selfsame ends, With the same hopes, and fears, and aspirations.

The twilight that surrounds the border-land of old romance.