Unasked, Unsought, Love gives itself but is not bought
Sunday is the golden clasp that binds together the volume of the week.
Art is the child of nature in whom we trace the features of the mothers face.
I do not believe anyone can be perfectly well, who has a brain and a heart
There is no grief like the grief that does not speak.
Lives of great men all remind usWe can make our lives sublime,And, departing, leave behind usFootprints on the sands of time;Footprints, that perhaps another,Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,Seeing, shall take heart...
Every arrow that flies feels the pull of the earth.
Ah, Nothing is too late, till the tired heart shall cease to palpitate.
Straight between them ran the pathway,Never grew the grass upon it