Out of the shdows of night The world rolls into light.
There is nothing perfectly secure but poverty.
The country is not priest-ridded, but press-ridden.
In the elder days of art Builders wrought with greatest care Each minute and unseen part, For the Gods are everywhere.
Don Quixote thought he could have made beautiful bird-cages and toothpicks if his brain had not been so full of ideas of chivalry. Most people would succeed in small things if they were not troubled with great ambitions.
Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, our faith triumphant o’er our fears, are all with thee – are all with thee!
And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares, that infest the day, Shall fold their tents like the Arabs, and silently steal away.
Defeat may be victory in disguise.
The poor too often turn away unheard, From hearts that shut against them with a sound That will be heard in heaven.
The counterfeit and counterpart of Nature is reproduced in art.
In ourselves are triumph and defeat.
Is this is a dream? O, if it be a dream, Let me sleep on, and do not wake me yet!
Today is the blocks with which we build.
And as she looked around, she saw how Death the consoler, Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it forever.
The true poet is a friendly man. He takes to his arms even cold and inanimate things, and rejoices in his heart.
Our pleasures and our discontents, Are rounds by which we may ascend.
Enthusiasm begets enthusiasm.
Were half the power that fills the world with terror, Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts, Given to redeem the human mind from error, There were no need of arsenals or forts.
I dislike an eye that twinkles like a star. Those only are beautiful which, like the planets, have a steady lambent light, are luminous, but not sparkling.
Wondrous strong are the spells of fiction.