Heaven is neither here nor there to me. Everywhere and nowhere. Just not in between, But I believe in Heaven.

Hush! Still as death, The tempest holds his breath As from a sudden will; The rain stops short, but from the eaves You see it drop, and hear it from the leaves, All is so bodingly still.

[B]ut in literature, it should be remembered, a thing always becomes his at last who says it best, and thus makes it his own.

The wisest man could ask no more of fate Than to be simple, modest, manly, true, Safe from the many, honored by the few; Nothing to court in Church, or World, or State, But inwardly in secret to be great.

What visionary tints the year puts on, When falling leaves falter through motionless air Or numbly cling and shiver to be gone! How shimmer the low flats and pastures bare, As with her nectar Hebe Autumn fills The bowl between me and those distant hills, And smiles and shakes abroad her misty, tremulous hair!

What men prize most is a privilege, even if it be that of chief mourner at a funeral.

Our American republic will endure only as long as the ideas of the men who founded it continue dominant.