The cheerful Sabbath bells, wherever heard, Strike pleasant on the sense, most like the voice Of one, who from the far-off hills proclaims Tidings of good to Zion.
Books which are no books.
Your absence of mind we have borne, till your presence of body came to be called in question by it.
Summer, as my friend Coleridge waggishly writes, has set in with its usual severity.
Lawyers, I suppose, were children once.
Our spirits grow gray before our hairs.