None think the great unhappy, but the great.

The future... seems to me no unified dream but a mince pie, long in the baking, never quite done

Each moment has its sickle, emulous Of Time's enormous scythe, whose ample sweep Strikes empires from the root.

The person of wisdom is the person of years.

Pity swells the tide of love.

Amid my list of blessings infinite, stands this the foremost, "that my heart has bled."

Man makes a death which Nature never made. And feels a thousand deaths in fearing one.