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.

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!

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.

Granting our wish is one of Fate's saddest jokes.

I have always been of the mind that in a democracy manners are the only effective weapons against the bowie-knife.

Silence is sorrow's best food.

Light is the symbol of truth.