Poetry is a mixture of common sense, which not all have, with an uncommon sense, which very few have.

Only the road and the dawn, the sun, the wind, and the rain, And the watch fire under stars, and sleep, and the road again.

The days that make us happy make us wise

Commonplace people dislike tragedy because they dare not suffer and cannot exult.

In this life he laughs longest who laughs last.

But he has gone, A nation's memory and veneration, Among the radiant, ever venturing on, Somewhere, with morning, as such spirits will.

Oh some are fond of Spanish wine, and some are fond of French.