I hold that a long poem does not exist. I maintain that the phrase, "a long poem," is simply a flat contradiction in terms.

Sleep, those little slices of death — how I loathe them.

The eye, like a shattered mirror, multiplies the images of sorrow

If we cannot comprehend God in his visible works, how then in his inconceivable thoughts, that call the works into being?

It is with literature as with law or empire - an established name is an estate in tenure, or a throne in possession.

Books, indeed, were his sole luxuries

Man's real life is happy, chiefly because he is ever expecting that it soon will be so.