Mine is the night, with all her stars.
The man who consecrates his hours by vigorous effort, and an honest aim, at once he draws the sting of life and Death; he walks with nature; and her paths are peace.
The weak have remedies, the wise have joys; superior wisdom is superior bliss.
Angels are men of a superior kind; Angels are men in lighter habit clad.
The future... seems to me no unified dream but a mince pie, long in the baking, never quite done
On every thorn, delightful wisdom grows, In every rill a sweet instruction flows.