Who's not sat tense before his own heart's curtain.

Sentiment is intellectualized emotion; emotion precipitated, as it were, in pretty crystals by the fancy.

And what is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days.

Here was a type of the true elder race, And one of Plutarch's men talked with us face to face.

And blessed are the horny hands of toil.

Some day the soft Ideal that we wooed confronts us fiercely, foe-beset, pursued, and cries reproachful: Was it then my praise, and not myself was loved? Prove now thy truth; I claim of thee the promise of thy youth.

Virtue treads paths that end not in the grave.