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.
That pernicious sentiment, "Our country, right or wrong."
Virtue treads paths that end not in the grave.
They are slaves who fear to speak, for the fallen and the weak.
The eye is the notebook of the poet.
The very gnarliest and hardest of hearts has some musical strings in it; but they are tuned differently in every one of us.