Let every man shovel out his own snow and the whole city will be passable.

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields, Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end. The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed In a tumultuous privacy of storm.

Come, see the north-wind's masonry, Out of an unseen quarry evermore Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer Curves his white bastions with projected roof Round every windward stake, or tree, or door. Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work So fanciful, so savage, naught cares he For number or proportion.

No man can help another without helping himself.

The reason why the world lacks unity, and lies broken and in heaps, is, because man is disunited with himself

So nigh is grandeur to our dust, So near is God to man. When Duty whispers low, Thou must, The youth replies, I can.