Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory; Odors, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken

Music, when soft voices die, vibrates in the memory.

Music, when soft voices die Vibrates in the memory

All of us who are worth anything, spend our manhood in unlearning the follies, or expiating the mistakes of our youth.

Man has no right to kill his brother. It is no excuse that he does so in uniform: he only adds the infamy of servitude to the crime of murder.

If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?