If Only The Best Birds Sang, The

Thou Warden Of The Western Gate, Above Manhattan Bay, The Fogs Of Doubt That Hid Thy Face Are Driven Clean Away: Thine Eyes At Last Look Far And Clear, Thou Liftest High Thy Hand To Spread The Light Of Liberty World-wide For Every Land.

No Amount Of Energy Will Take The Place Of Thought. A Strenuous Life With Its Eyes Shut Is A Kind Of Wild Insanity.

What Do I Owe My Father? Everything!

Use What Talents You Possess; The Woods Would Be Very Silent If No Birds Sang There Except Those That Sang Best.

In Warlike Pomp, With Banners Flowing, The Regiments Of Autumn Stood: I Saw Their Gold And Scarlet Glowing From Every Hillside, Every Wood.