The gold-barr'd butterflies to and from And over the waterside wander'd and wove As heedless and idle as clouds that rove And drift by the peaks of perpetual snow. - Joaquin Miller ,

All crush'd and stone-cast in behaviour, She stood as a marble would stand, Then the Saviour bent down, and the Saviour In silence wrote on in the sand.

Men lie, who lack courage to tell truth--the cowards!

Lo! darkness bends down like a mother of grief On the limitless plain, and the fall of her hair It has mantled a world.

"All honor to him who shall win the prize," The world has cried for a thousand years; But to him who tries and fails and dies, I give great honor and glory and tears.

And wisest he in this whole wide land Of hoarding till bent and gray; For all you can hold in your cold, dead hand Is what you have given away. . . . . He gave with a zest and he gave his best; Give him the best to come.

He gives twice who gives quickly. - credited to Publius Syrus Mimus,

'Tis midnight now. The bend and broken moon, Batter'd and black, as from a thousand battles, Hangs silent on the purple walls of Heaven.

The bravest battle that ever was fought; Shall I tell you where and when? On the maps of the world you will find it not; It was fought by the mothers of men. - Joaquin Miller ,

That man who lives for self alone, Lives for the meanest mortal known.