The house of laughter makes a house of woe.

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

A friend is worth all hazards we can run.

This vast and solid earth, that blazing sun, Those skies, thro' which it rolls, must all have end. What then is man? The smallest part of nothing.

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.

On every thorn, delightful wisdom grows, In every rill a sweet instruction flows.

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