He that's ungrateful has no guilt but one; All other crimes may pass for virtues in him.

We push time from us, and we wish him back; * * * * * * Life we think long and short; death seek and shun.

Think naught a trifle, though it small appear; Small stands the mountain, moments make the year, and trifles life.

By all means use some time to be alone.

The spider's most attenuated thread Is cord, is cable, to man's tender tie On earthly bliss; it breaks at every breeze.

Nothing but what astonishes is true.

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