Thoughts shut up want air, And spoil, like bales unopen'd to the sun.
Tis immortality, 'tis that alone, Amid life's pains, abasements, emptiness, The soul can comfort, elevate, and fill. That only, and that amply this performs.
There buds the promise of celestial worth.
Man maketh a death which Nature never made.
The future... seems to me no unified dream but a mince pie, long in the baking, never quite done
Man makes a death which Nature never made. And feels a thousand deaths in fearing one.