Not what we give, but what we share, for the gift without the giver is bare.

The greatest homage we can pay to truth, is to use it.

It may be glorious to write Thoughts that shall glad the two or three High souls, like those far stars that come in sight Once in a century.

Some kind of pace may be got out of the eeriest jade by the near prospect of oats; but the thoroughbred has the spur in his blood.

Death is delightful. Death is dawn, The waking from a weary night Of fevers unto truth and light.

The nunneries of silent nooks, the murmured longing of the wood.

The soil out of which such men as he are made is good to be born on, good to live on, good to die for and to be buried in.