Of happy men that have the power to die, And grassy barrows of the happier dead.

You may tell me that my hand and foot are only imaginary symbols of my existence. I could believe you, but you never, never can convince me that the I is not an eternal reality, and that the spiritual is not the true and real part of me.

She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces through the room

A louse in the locks of literature.

Nor is it wiser to weep a true occasion lost, but trim our sails, and let old bygones be.

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers.

Yonder cloud That rises upward always higher, And onward drags a laboring breast, And topples round the dreary west, A looming bastion fringed with fire.