The emigrant's way o'er the western desert is mark'd by
Camp-fires long consum'd and bones that bleach in the sunshine.

And in the wreck of noble lives Something immortal still survives.

Straight between them ran the pathway,
Never grew the grass upon it.

A Lady with a Lamp shall stand In the great history of the land, A noble type of good, Heroic womanhood.

T is a stairway, not a street, That ascends the deep ravine, Where the torrent leaps between Rocky walls that almost meet.

The greatest grace of a gift, perhaps, is that it anticipates and admits of no return.

And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters.

Every man has his secret sorrows.

For next to being a great poet is the power of understanding one.

The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer,
Kisses the blushing leaf.

And when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the silence.

Chill air and wintry winds! My ear has grown familiar with your song; I hear it in the opening year, I listen, and it cheers me long.

Noble souls, through dust and heat, rise from disaster and defeat the stronger.

Day of the Lord, as all our days should be!

A thought often makes us hotter than a fire.

Let him not boast who puts his armor on as he who puts it off, the battle done.

With useless endeavour Forever, forever, Is Sisyphus rolling His stone up the mountain!

A single conversation across the table with a wise man is better than ten years mere study of books.

Let us be merciful as well as just.

Let the dead Past bury its dead!