The bell strikes One. We take no note of time But from its loss. To give it then a tongue Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke, I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, It is the knell of my departed hours.

Revere thyself, and yet thyself despise

Truth never was indebted to a lie

A God all mercy is a God unjust.

There is something about poetry beyond prose logic, there is mystery in it, not to be explained but admired.

In an active life is sown the seed of wisdom; but he who reflects not, never reaps; has no harvest from it, but carries the burden of age without the wages of experience; nor knows himself old, but from his infirmities, the parish register, and the contempt of mankind. And age, if it has not esteem, has nothing.

Be wise to-day; 't is madness to defer.