Not only around our infancy Doth heaven with all its splendors lie; Daily, with souls that cringe and plot, We Sinais climb and know it not.

He gives only the worthless gold who gives from a sense of duty.

The nurse of full-grown souls is solitude.

In creating, the only hard thing is to begin: a grass blade's no easier to make than an oak.

In the storm, like a prophet o'ermaddened, Thou singest and tossest thy branches; Thy heart with the terror is gladdened, Thou forebodest the dread avalanches.... In the calm thou o'erstretchest the valleys With thine arms, as if blessings imploring, Like an old king led forth from his palace, When his people to battle are pouring.

Many make the household but only one the home.

In the scale of the destinies, brawn will never weigh so mach as brain.