Nature, they say, doth dote, And cannot make a man Save on some worn-out plan, Repeating us by rote.
The idol is the measure of the worshipper.
The fireflies o’er the meadow In pulses come and go.
A great man is made up of qualities that meet or make great occasions.
Old gold has a civilizing virtue which new gold must grow old to be capable of secreting.
A word once vulgarized can never be rehabilitated.
Compromise makes a good umbrella, but a poor roof; it is temporary expedient, often wise in party politics, almost sure to be unwise in statesmanship.
The time is ripe, and rotten-ripe, for change… [Truth’s] mirror is turned forward, to reflect The promise of the future, not the past.
No man, I suspect, ever lived long in the country without being bitten by these meteorological ambitions. He likes to be hotter and colder, to have been more deeply snowed up, to have more trees and larger blown down than his neighbors.
To fail at all is to fail utterly.
So we’re all right, an’ I, for one, Don’t think our cause’ll lose in vally By rammin’ Scriptur’ in our gun, An’ gittin’ Natur’ for an ally.
Ah, in this world, where every guiding thread Ends suddenly in the one sure centre, death, The visionary hand of Might-have-been Alone can fill Desire’s cup to the brim!