The moon is hidden behind a cloud... On the leaves is a sound of falling rain... No other sounds than these I hear; The hour of midnight must be near... So many ghosts, and forms of fright, Have started from their graves to-night, They have driven sleep from mine eyes away: I will go down to the chapel and pray.

The poor too often turn away unheard, From hearts that shut against them with a sound That will be heard in heaven.

See yonder little cloud, that, borne aloft So tenderly by the wind, floats fast away Over the snowy peaks!

Nothing that is can pause or stay.

The prayer of Ajax was for light.

There are favorable hours for reading a book, as for writing it.

Art is the child of Nature.