Where Nature's end of language is declin'd, And men talk only to conceal the mind.

Night, sable goddess! from her ebon throne, In rayless majesty, now stretches forth Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumbering world.

We nothing know, but what is marvellous; Yet what is marvellous, we can't believe.

Procrastination is the thief of time: Year after year it steals, till all are fled.

Death! great proprietor of all! 'tis thine To tread out empire, and to quench the stars.

Nothing but what astonishes is true.

Not all the pride of beauty; Those eyes, that tell us what the sun is made of; Those lips, whose touch is to be bought with life; Those hills of driven snow, which seen are felt: All these possessed are nought, but as they are The proof, the substance of an inward passion, And the rich plunder of a taken heart.