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

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

The true ideal is not opposed to the real but lies in it; and blessed are the eyes that find it.

It may be conjectured that it is cheaper in the long run to lift men up than to hold them down, and that the ballot in their hands is less dangerous to society than a sense of wrong is in their heads.

There is something magnificent in having a country to love.

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.

His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, But hern went pity-Zekle.