One to destroy, is murder by the law; and gibbets keep the lifted hand in awe; to murder thousands, takes a specious name, 'War's glorious art', and gives immortal fame.

Too low they build who build below the skies.

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.

[The] public path of life Is dirty.

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

The love of praise, howe'er conceal'd by art, Reigns more or less, and glows in ev'ry heart.

Beautiful as sweet, And young as beautiful, and soft as young, And gay as soft, and innocent as gay!