Alas! must it ever be so? Do we stand in our own light, wherever we go, And fight our own shadows forever?

Whenever I hear French spoken as I approve, I find myself quietly falling in love.

The world is filled with folly and sin, And Love must cling, where it can, I say: For Beauty is easy enough to win; But one isn't loved every day.

That's best Which God sends. 'Twas His will: it is mine.

Truth makes on the ocean of nature no one track of light; every eye, looking on, finds its own.

We may live without poetry, music and art; We may live without conscience, and live without heart; We may live without friends; we may live without books; But civilized man cannot live without cooks. . . . He may live without books,-what is knowledge but grieving? He may live without hope,-what is hope but deceiving? He may live without love,-what is passion but pining? But where is the man that can live without dining?

Heaven's slow but sure redress of human ills.