“I feel like oneWho treads aloneSome banquet-hall deserted,Whose lights are fled,Whose garland's dead,And all but he departed!”

“Better than the tread of mighty armies is an idea whose time has come.”

“Mortal, what hast thou of such grave concernThat thou indulgest in too sickly plaints?Why this bemoaning and beweeping death?For if thy life aforetime and behindTo thee was grateful, and not all thy goodWas heaped as in sieve to flow awayAnd perish unavailingly, why not,Even like a banqueter, depart the hall,Laden with life?”

“No one could bear the idea of the White City lying empty and desolate. A Cosmopolitan writer said, "Better to have it vanish suddenly, in a blaze of glory, than fall into gradual disrepair and dilapidation. There is no more melancholy spectacle than a festal hall, the morning after the banquet, when the guests have departed and the lights are extinguished.”

“Earth-treading stars that make dark heaven light:Such comfort as do lusty young men feelWhen well-apparell'd April on the heelOf limping winter treads, even such delightAmong fresh female buds shall you this nightInherit at my house; hear all, all see,And like her most whose merit most shall be:”

“He whose face gives no light, shall never become a star.”