Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson.
All great poets have been men of great knowledge.
Yet will that beauteous image make The dreary sea less drear And thy remembered smile will wake The hope that tramples fear
Is not thy home among the flowers?
Truth gets well if she is run over by a locomotive, while error dies of lockjaw if she scratches her finger.
The birch-bark canoe of the savage seems to me one of the most beautiful and perfect things of the kind constructed by human art.