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

If we did but know how little some enjoy of the great things that they possess, there would not be much envy in the world.

A dedication is a wooden leg.

Men may live fools, but fools they cannot die.

Born originals, how comes it to pass that we die copies? That meddling ape imitation, as soon as we come to years of indiscretion, (so let me speak,) snatches the pen, and blots out nature's mark of separation, cancels her kind intention, destroys all mental individuality. The lettered world no longer consists of singulars: it is a medley, a mass; and a hundred books, at bottom, are but one.

Praise, more divine than prayer; prayer points our ready path to heaven; praise is already there.

The man of wisdom is the man of years.