Intelligence and courtesy not always are combined; Often in a wooden house a golden room we find.

As Unto the bow the the cord is , So unto the man is woman; Though she bends him, she obeys him, Though she draws him , yet she follows: Useless each without the other.

This is the place. Stand still, my steed,- Let me review the scene, And summon from the shadowy past The forms that once have been.

The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight.

Many a poem is marred by a superfluous verse.

A word that has been said may be unsaid-it is but air. But when a deed is done, it cannot be undone, nor can our thoughts reach out to all the mischiefs that may follow.

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