Like black hulks the shadows of the great trees ride at anchor on the billowy sea of grass.

The holiest of holidays are those kept by ourselves in silence and apart; The secret anniversaries of the heart.

There are things of which I may not speak; There are dreams that cannot die; There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak, And bring a pallor into the cheek, And a mist before the eye.

People of a lively imagination are generally curious, and always so when a little in love.

A great sorrow, like a mariner's quadrant, brings the sun at noon down to the horizon, and we learn where we are on the sea of life.

This is the place. Stand still, my steed,- Let me review the scene, And summon from the shadowy past The forms that once have been.

Oh, how short are the days! How soon the night overtakes us!