The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods and meadows brown and sear.

And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, and the year smiles as it draws near its death.

Poetry is the eloquence of verse.

Difficulty is the nurse of greatness.

A sculptor wields The chisel, and the stricken marble grows To beauty.

Music is not merely a study, it is an entertainment; wherever there is music there is a throng of listeners.

Flowers spring up unsown and die ungathered.