Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson.

Poetry is that art which selects and arranges the symbols of thought in such a manner as to excite the imagination the most powerfully and delightfully.

Truth gets well if she is run over by a locomotive, while error dies of lockjaw if she scratches her finger.

Ah! never shall the land forget.

A herd of prairie-wolves will enter a field of melons and quarrel about the division of the spoils as fiercely and noisily as so many politicians.

The moon is at her full, and riding high, Floods the calm fields with light. The airs that hover in the summer sky Are all asleep to-night.

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