Then read from the treasured volume the poem of thy choice, and lend to the rhyme of the poet the beauty of thy voice.

I hear the wind among the trees Playing the celestial symphonies; I see the branches downward bent, Like keys of some great instrument.

Life hath quicksands, Life hath snares!

Ah! What would the world be to us If the children were no more? We should dread the desert behind us Worse than the dark before.

Every great poem is in itself limited by necessity, but in its suggestions unlimited and infinite.

Dreams or illusions, call them what you will, they lift us from the commonplace of life to better things.

No man is so poor as that. As well might the mountain streamlets say they have nothing worth giving to the sea, because they are not rivers. Give what you have. To some one, it may be better than you dare to think.