Man wants little, nor that little long.

The man who consecrates his hours by vigorous effort, and an honest aim, at once he draws the sting of life and Death; he walks with nature; and her paths are peace.

We are all born originals - why is it so many of us die copies?

Sense is our helmet, wit is but the plume; The plume exposes, 'tis our helmet saves. Sense is the diamond, weighty, solid, sound; When cut by wit, it casts a brighter beam; Yet, wit apart, it is a diamond still.

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

They only babble who practise not reflection

What tender force, what dignity divine, what virtue consecrating every feature; around that neck what dross are gold and pearl!