Difficulty is the nurse of greatness.

The rose that lives its little hour Is prized beyone the sculpted flower.

Flowers spring up unsown and die ungathered.

The February sunshine steeps your boughs and tints the buds and swells the leaves within.

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.

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

Beautiful isles! beneath the sunset skies tall, silver-shafted palm-trees rise, between full orange-trees that shade the living colonade.