The Dearest Events Are Summer-rain.

It Is One Of The Blessings Of Old Friends That You Can Afford To Be Stupid With Them.

By The Rude Bridge That Arched The Flood, Their Flag To April's Breeze Unfurled, Here Once The Embattled Farmers Stood, And Fired The Shot Heard Round The World.

The Philanthropists Inquire Whether Transcendentalism Does Not Mean Sloth: They Had As Lief Hear That Their Friend Is Dead, As That He Is A Transcendentalist; For Then Is He Paralyzed, And Can Never Do Anything For Humanity.

I--this Thought Which Is Called I--is The Mould Into Which The World Is Poured Like Melted Wax.

Out Of Plato Come All Things That Are Still Written And Debated About Among Men Of Thought.