Thus thought I, as by night I read Of the great army of the dead, The trenches cold and damp, The starved and frozen camp,-- The wounded from the battle-plain, In dreary hospitals of pain, The cheerless corridors, The cold and stony floors. Lo! in that house of misery A lady with a lamp I see Pass through the glimmering gloom And flit from room to room. And slow, as in a dream of bliss, The speechless sufferer turns to kiss Her shadow, as it falls Upon the darkening walls.

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

The thoughts of Youth are long, long thoughts

Life like an empty dream flits by.

In ourselves are triumph and defeat.

As the heart is, so is love to the heart. It partakes of its strength or weakness, its health or disease.

The life of a man consists not in seeing visions and in dreaming dreams, but in active charity and in willing service.