The moon is at her full, and riding high, Floods the calm fields with light. The airs that hover in the summer sky Are all asleep tonight.
There is no glory in star or blossom till looked upon by a loving eye There is no fragrance in April breezes till breathed with joy as they wander by.
The little windflower, whose just opened eye is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at.
Go forth under the open sky, and list To Nature’s teachings.
Where hast thou wandered, gentle gale, to find the perfumes thou dost bring?
And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, and the year smiles as it draws near its death.
Truth gets well if she is run over by a locomotive, while error dies of lockjaw if she scratches her finger.
A sculptor wields The chisel, and the stricken marble grows To beauty.
Poetry is that art which selects and arranges the symbols of thought in such a manner as to excite the imagination the most powerfully and delightfully.
Winning isn’t everything, but it beats anything in second place.
Weep not that the world changes – did it keep a stable, changeless state, it were cause indeed to weep.