Not in the clamor of the crowded street, Not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, But in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.
The world loves a spice of wickedness.
How far the gulf-stream of our youth may flow Into the arctic regions of our lives, Where little else than life itself survives.
For age is opportunity no less Than youth itself, though in another dress, And as the evening twilight fades away The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.
When a great man dies, for years the light he leaves behind him, lies on the paths of men.
If we could read the secret history of our enemies we should find in each man’s life sorrow and suffering enough to disarm all hostility.
Art is the child of Nature; yes, her darling child in whom we trace The features of the mother’s face, Her aspect and her attitude.
The counterfeit and counterpart Of Nature reproduced in art.
In the world’s broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife.
Write on your doors the saying wise and old. “Be bold!” and everywhere – “Be bold; Be not too bold!” Yet better the excess Than the defect; better the more than less…