Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul. - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

In the valley of the Pegnitz, where,
Across broad meadow-lands,
Rise the blue Franconian mountains,
Nuremburg, the ancient, stands. Quaint old town of toil and traffic,
Quaint old town of art and song,
Memories haunt thy pointed gables,
Like the rooks that round thee throng.

Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

I am more afraid of deserving criticism than of receiving it. I stand in awe of my own opinion. The secret demerits of which we alone, perhaps, are conscious, are often more difficult to bear than those which have been publicly censured in us, and thus in some degree atoned for.