I know not which I love the most, Nor which the comeliest shows, The timid, bashful violet Or the royal-hearted rose: The pansy in purple dress, The pink with cheek of red, Or the faint, fair heliotrope, who hangs, Like a bashful maid her head.

Sometimes, I think the things we see are shadows of the things to be; that what we plan we build

O that one unguarded moment! / Were it mine to live again, / All the strength of its temptation / Would appeal to me in vain.

Only yield when you must, never "give up the ship," but fight on to the last "with a stiff upper lip!

One sweetly solemn thought, comes to me o'er and o'er; I am nearer home today, than I ever have been before.

Death comes not to the living soul, nor age to the living heart.

Do we call the star lost that is hidden / In the great light of morn?