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A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain.

Sculpture is more divine, and more like Nature, That fashions all her works in high relief, And that is Sculpture. This vast ball, the Earth, Was moulded out of clay, and baked in fire; Men, women, and all animals that breathe Are statues, and not paintings.

Sculpture is more than painting. It is greater To raise the dead to life than to create Phantoms that seem to live.

He that respects himself is safe from others; He wears a coat of mail that none can pierce.

Man-like it is to fall into sin; fiendlike it is to dwell therein.

He the sweetest of all singers.

Sang in tones of deep emotion Songs of love and songs of longing.

God sent his Singers upon earth With songs of sadness and of mirth, That they might touch the hearts of men, And bring them back to heaven again.

They sing, they will pay.

Sleep... Oh! how I loathe those little slices of death....

Out of the bosom of the Air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, Over the woodlands brown and bare, Over the harvest-fields forsaken, Silent, and soft, and slow Descends the snow.

Build me straight. O worthy Master! Staunch and strong, a goodly vessel That shall laugh at all disaster, And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!

There's not a ship that sails the ocean, But every climate, every soil, Must bring its tribute, great or small, And help to build the wooden wall!

And the wind plays on those great sonorous harps, the shrouds and masts of ships.

And fast through the midnight dark and drear, Through the whistling sleet and snow, Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept Towards the reef of Norman's Woe.

The song on its mighty pinions Took every living soul, and lifted it gently to heaven.

Such songs have power to quiet The restless pulse of care, And come like the benediction That follows after prayer.

Listen to that song, and learn it! Half my kingdom would I give, As I live, If by such songs you would earn it.

The sparrows chirped as if they still were proud Their race in Holy Writ should mentioned be. - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,

Where should the scholar live? In solitude, or in society? in the green stillness of the country, where he can hear the heart of Nature beat, or in the dark, gray town where he can hear and feel the throbbing heart of man?