Still stands the forest primeval; but far away from its shadow, Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping.Under the humble walls of the little catholic churchyard,In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and unnoticed;Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them,Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and forever,Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are busy,Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from their labors,Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have completed their journey!

Only a look and a voice; then darkness again and silence.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting.

It was Autumn, and incessant Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves, And, like living coals, the apples Burned among the withering leaves.

The setting of a great hope is like the setting of the sun. The brightness of our life is gone.

The country is not priest-ridded, but press-ridden.

It is difficult to know at what moment love begins; it is less difficult to know that it has begun.