Hope smiles from the threshold of the year to come whispering ‘it will be happier.’
Death is the end of life; ah, why should life all labour be?
Yet I doubt not thro’ the ages one increasing purpose runs, and the thoughts of men are widened with the process of the suns.
Words, like Nature, half reveal and half conceal the Soul within.
Who are wise in love, love most, say least.
What rights are his that dare not strike for them?
What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his youthful joys, tho’ the deep heart of existence beat for ever like a boy’s?
We whisper, and hint, and chuckle, and grin at a brother’s shame; however we brave it out, we men are a little breed.
We dare not even by silence sanction lies.
Too much wit makes the world rotten.
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
There’s no glory like his who saves his country.
