Time is, after all, the greatest of poets; and the sons of Memory stand a better chance of being the heirs of Fame.

Ez fer war, I call it murder,- There you hev it plain an' flat; I don't want to go no furder Than my Testyment fer that. . . . . . An' you 've gut to git up airly Ef you want to take in God.

Books are the bees which carry the quickening pollen from one to another mind.

Be NOBLE! and the nobleness that liesIn other men, sleeping, but never dead,Will rise in majesty to meet thine own.

The heart forgets its sorrow and ache.

And blessed are the horny hands of toil.

I would hardly change the sorrowful words of the poets for their glad ones. Tears dampen the strings of the lyre, but they grow the tensor for it, and ring even the clearer and more ravishingly.