Talent is that which is in a man's power; genius is that in whose power a man is.

Nature, they say, doth dote, And cannot make a man Save on some worn-out plan, Repeating us by rote.

Death is delightful. Death is dawn, The waking from a weary night Of fevers unto truth and light.

Virtue treads paths that end not in the grave.

They talk about their Pilgrim blood, their birthright high and holy! a mountain-stream that ends in mud thinks is melancholy.

We look at death through the cheap-glazed windows of the flesh, and believe him the monster which the flawed and cracked glass represents him.

Old events have modern meanings; only that survives of past history which finds kindred in all hearts and lives.