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.

It is curious to note the old sea-margins of human thought! Each subsiding century reveals some new mystery; we build where monsters used to hide themselves.

O suffering, sad humanity! O ye afflicted ones, who lie Steeped to the lips in misery, Longing, yet afraid to die, Patient, though sorely tried!

Hope has as many lives as a cat or a king.

Ye are better than all the ballads That ever were sung or said; For ye are living poems, And all the rest are dead.

In the mouths of many men soft words are like roses that soldiers put into the muzzles of their muskets on holidays.

To say the least, a town life makes one more tolerant and liberal in one's judgment of others.