The South-wind brings Life, sunshine and desire, And on every mount and meadow Breathes aromatic fire; But over the dead he has no power, The lost, the lost, he cannot restore; And, looking over the hills, I mourn The darling who shall not return.
It has come to be practically a sort of rule in literature that a man, having once shown himself capable of original writing, is entitled thenceforth to steal from the writings of others at discretion.
How casually and unobservedly we make all our most valued acquaintances.
Want is a growing giant whom the coat of Have was never large enough to cover.
A friend may well be reckoned the masterpiece of nature.
When I first open my eyes upon the morning meadows and look out upon the beautiful world, I thank God I am alive.
