|1.||Crossing a bare common in snow puddles, at twilight, under a clouded sky, without having in my thoughts any occurrence of special good fortune, I have enjoyed a perfect exhilaration. I am glad to the brink of fear.|
|2.||Hitch your wagon to a star.|
|3.||A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.|
|4.||By the rude bridge that arched the flood,|
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood
And fired the shot heard round the world.