The will to do, the soul to dare.
Look back, and smile at perils past.
Credit is like a looking-glass, which when once sullied by a breath, may be wiped clear again; but if once cracked can never be repaired.
Breathes there the man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land!
Come he slow or come he fast. It is but death who comes at last.
Teach you children poetry; it opens the mind, lends grace to wisdom and makes the heroic virtues hereditary.
Death -- the last sleep? No, it is the final awakening.
But with morning cool repentance came.
Is death the last step? No, it is the final awakening.
We build statues out of snow, and weep to see them melt.
Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.
Ridicule often checks what is absurd, and fully as often smothers that which is noble.