Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked up a horseshoe.
Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, our faith triumphant oโer our fears, are all with thee โ are all with thee!
No literature is complete until the language it was written in is dead.
Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.
O beautiful, awful summer day, what hast thou given, what taken away?
Thinking the deed, and not the creed, Would help us in our utmost need.