The qualities all in a bee that we meet, In an epigram never should fail; The body should always be little and sweet, And a sting should be felt in its tail.

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

This is the bud of being, the dim dawn, The twilight of our day, the vestibule; Life's theatre as yet is shut, and death, Strong death, alone can heave the massy bar, This gross impediment of clay remove, And make us embryos of existence free.

Of boasting more than of a bomb afraid, A soldier should be modest as a maid.

Insatiate archer! could not one suffice? Thy shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain; And thrice, ere thrice yon moon had filled her horn.

Heaven wills our happiness, allows our doom.

What is revenge but courage to call in our honor's debts, and wisdom to convert others' self-love into our own protection?