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

Were a star quenched on high,For ages would its light,Still travelling downward from the sky,Shine on our mortal sight. So when a great man dies,For years beyond our ken,The light he leaves behind him liesUpon the paths of men.

No man is so poor as to have nothing worth giving.

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

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.

In December ring Every day the chimes; Loud the gleemen sing In the streets their merry rhymes. Let us by the fire Ever higher Sing them till the night expire!

It was a high counsel that I once heard given to a young person, - always do what you are afraid to do.