Love lives on, and hath a power to bless when they who loved are hidden in the grave.

And I honor the man who is willing to sink half his present repute for the freedom to think, and, when he has thought, be his cause strong or weak, Will risk t' other half for the freedom to speak.

To be young is surely the best, if the most precarious, gift of life.

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

Whom the heart of man shuts out, Sometimes the heart of God takes in, And fences them all round about With silence mid the worlds loud din.

Many make the household but only one the home.

I love her with a love as still As a broad river's peaceful might, Which by high tower and lowly mill, Goes wandering at its own will, And yet does ever flow aright.