He sins against this life, who slights the next.
We cry for mercy to the next amusement, The next amusement mortgages our fields
Ah, how unjust to Nature and himself Is thoughtless, thankless, inconsistent man!
There is something about poetry beyond prose logic, there is mystery in it, not to be explained but admired.
Who lives to Nature, rarely can be poor ; who lives to fancy, never can be rich.
Whose yesterdays look backwards with a smile.