From Labor There Shall Come Forth Rest.

What Seems To Us But Dim Funeral Tapers May Be Heaven's Distant Lamps.

All That Is Best In The Great Poets Of All Countries Is Not What Is National In Them, But What Is Universal.

The Atmosphere Breathes Rest And Comfort, And The Many Chambers Seem Full Of Welcomes.

No Action, Whether Foul Or Fair, Is Ever Done, But It Leaves Somewhere A Record, Written By Fingers Ghostly, As A Blessing Or A Curse, And Mostly In The Greater Weakness Or Greater Strength Of The Acts Which Follow It.

Art Is The Child Of Nature In Whom We Trace The Features Of The Mothers Face.