Education is not the filling of a pail, but the lighting of a fire.

O what fine thought we had because we thought that the worst rogues and rascals had died out.

When I clamber to the heights of sleep, Or when I grow excited with wine, suddenly I meet your face.

The woods of Arcady are dead, And over is their antique joy; Of old the world on dreaming fed Gray Truth is now her painted toy.

Do not wait to strike till the iron is hot; but make it hot by striking.

What's memory but the ash That chokes our fires that have begun to sink?

THAT crazed girl improvising her music. Her poetry, dancing upon the shore, Her soul in division from itself Climbing, falling She knew not where, Hiding amid the cargo of a steamship, Her knee-cap broken, that girl I declare A beautiful lofty thing, or a thing Heroically lost, heroically found. No matter what disaster occurred She stood in desperate music wound, Wound, wound, and she made in her triumph Where the bales and the baskets lay No common intelligible sound But sang, 'O sea-starved, hungry sea