Into each life some rain must fall, some days must be dark and dreary.

If you would hit the mark, you must aim a little above it;
Every arrow that flies feels the attraction of earth.

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. Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem.

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.

I do not believe anyone can be perfectly well, who has a brain and a heart

There is nothing holier in this life of ours than the first consciousness of love, the first fluttering of its silken wings.