Sad is his lot, who, once at least in his life, has not been a poet.

Friendship, sweet-resting place of the soul, the gloaming wherein our hearts find peace.

Assassination makes only martyrs, not converts.

Barbarism recommences by the excess of civilization.

Man, man, is thy brother, and thy father is God.

Time is a great ocean which, like the other ocean, overflows with our remains.

Sentiment is the poetry of the imagination.