Generations pass while some tree stands, and old families last not three oaks.

They are perfect; how else?-they shall never change: We are faulty; why not?-we have time in store.

God's justice, tardy though it prove perchance, Rests never on the track until it reach Delinquency.

Oh, good gigantic smile o' the brown old earth, This autumn morning! How he sets his bones To bask i' the sun, and thrusts out knees and feet. From the ripple to run over in its mirth

How very hard it is to be a Christian!

What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?

Graved inside of it, "Italy".