The man who builds, and wants wherewith to pay, Provides a home from which to run away.
Ah! what is human life? How, like the dial's tardy-moving shade, Day after day slides from us unperceiv'd! The cunning fugitive is swift by stealth; Too subtle is the movement to be seen; Yet soon the hour is up--and we are gone.
A Christian is the highest style of man.
Men are but men; we did not make ourselves.
We are all born originals - why is it so many of us die copies?
Mine is the night, with all her stars.