He who would be the tongue of this wide land Must string his harp with chords of sturdy iron And strike it with a toil-imbrowned hand.

Each day the world is born anew For him who takes it rightly

Though old the thought and oft exprest, Tis his at last who says it best.

Ah, in this world, where every guiding thread Ends suddenly in the one sure centre, death, The visionary hand of Might-have-been Alone can fill Desire's cup to the brim!

They have rights who dare maintain them.

No price is set on the lavish summer; June may be had by the poorest comer.

What is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days; Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, And over it softly her warm ear lays.

Silence is sorrow's best food.

A wise skepticism is the first attribute of a good critic.

The nurse of full-grown souls is solitude.