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To say the least, a town life makes one more tolerant and liberal in one's judgement of others.

We judge ourselves by what we feel capable of doing, while others judge us by what we have already done.

Men as a whole judge more with their eyes than with their hands.

Though he was rough, he was kindly.

Writ in the climate of heaven, in the language spoken by angels.

Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul. Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem.

The prayer of Ajax was for light; Through all that dark and desperate fight, The blackness of that noonday night.

Listen, every one That listen may, unto a tale That's merrier than the nightingale. - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Tales of a Wayside Inn ,

Love gives itself; it is not bought.

Talk not of wasted affection; affection never was wasted. -Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee, Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, Are all with thee,--are all with thee!

Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked up a horseshoe.

You behold in me Only a travelling Physician; One of the few who have a mission To cure incurable diseases, Or those that are called so.

The joy of meeting not unmixed with pain.

Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing, Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness: So on the ocean of life, we pass and speak one another, Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence. - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,

The leaves of memory seemed to make A mournful rustling in the dark.

Being all fashioned of the self-same dust, Let us be merciful as well as just.

I stood on the bridge at midnight, As the clocks were striking the hour, And the moon rose over the city, Behind the dark church tower.

Midnight! the outpost of advancing day! The frontier town and citadel of night!

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! For the soul is dead that slumbers, and things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art; to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.