Critics are sentinels in the grand army of letters, stationed at the corners of newspapers and reviews, to challenge every new author.

Sunday is the golden clasp that binds together the volume of the week.

Our blossoms of passion, gay and luxuriant flowers, are bright and full of fragrance, but they beguile us and lead us astray, and their odor is deadly.

Don't cross the bridge til you come to it.

The true poet is a friendly man. He takes to his arms even cold and inanimate things, and rejoices in his heart.

Out of the bosom of the Air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, Over the woodlands brown and bare, Over the harvest-fields forsaken, Silent, and soft, and slow Descends the snow.

I heard the bells on Christmas Day Their old, familiar carols play, And wild and sweet The words repeat Of peace on earth, good-will to men!