When you are old and gray and full of sleep, and nodding by the fire, take down this book and slowly read, and dream of the soft look your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep.
Too long a sacrifice can make a stone of the heart. O when may it suffice?
There are no strangers here; Only friends you haven't yet met.
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
Think where man's glory most begins and ends, and say my glory was I had such friends.
We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry.
