However smothered under former negligence, or scattered through the dull, dark mass of common thoughts - let thy genius rise as the sun from chaos.
O! lost to virtue, lost to manly thought, Lost to the noble sallies of the soul! Who think it solitude to be alone.
Men are but men; we did not make ourselves.
A dedication is a wooden leg.
Midway from Nothing to the Deity!
Each moment has its sickle, emulous Of Time's enormous scythe, whose ample sweep Strikes empires from the root.