The cloud shadows of midnight possess their own repose.

History is a cyclic poem written by time upon the memories of man.

The advocates of literal interpretation have been the most efficacious enemies of those doctrines whose nature they profess to venerate.

The moon of Mahomet Arose, and it shall set; While, blazoned as on heaven's immortal noon, The cross leads generations on.

Poetry is the record of the best and happiest moments of the happiest and best minds.

The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing, The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying, And the Year On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead, Is lying. . . .

Know ye what it is to be a child? It is to have a spirit yet streaming from the waters of baptism; it is to believe in love, to believe in loveliness, to believe in belief.