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

For his heart was in his work, and the heart giveth grace unto every art.

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.

If we could read the secret history of our enemies.

And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters

Go forth to meet the shadowy future without fear and with a manly heart.

The morrow was a bright September morn; The earth was beautiful as if newborn; There was nameless splendor everywhere, That wild exhilaration in the air, Which makes the passers in the city street Congratulate each other as they meet.