The Beauty which old Greece or RomeSung, painted, wrought, lies close at home. — John Greenleaf Whittier
For of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: it might have been. — John Greenleaf Whittier
Ah, that I were free again! free as when I rode that day, where the barefoot maiden raked the hay. — John Greenleaf Whittier
And a nameless longing filled her breast, – a wish, that she hardly dared to own, for something better than she had known. — John Greenleaf Whittier