God forgive me for having thought it possible that a schoolmaster could be out and out a rational being.

It is the privilege of tale-tellers to open their story in an inn, the free rendezvous of all travellers, and where the humour of each displays itself, without ceremony or restraint.

Time rolls his ceaseless course.

He that climbs a ladder must begin at the first round.

Breathes there the man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land.

We build statues out of snow, and weep to see them melt.

Vacant heart, and hand, and eye, Easy live and quiet die.