From reveries so airy, from the toil / Of dropping buckets into empty wells, / And growing old in drawing nothing up.

No man can be a patriot on an empty stomach.

It is a terrible thought, that nothing is ever forgotten; that not an oath is ever uttered that does not continue to vibrate through all times, in the wide spreading current of sound; that not a prayer is lisped, that its record is not to be found st

Nothing makes one old so quickly as the ever-present thought that one is growing older.

Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a hunting For fear of little men

I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears and sweat.