The pedigree of honey does not concern the bee; A clover, any time, to him is aristocracy.

Had we less to say to those we love, perhaps we should say it oftener.

To lose what we have never owned might seem an eccentric bereavement, but Presumption has its own affliction as well as claim.

This is my letter to the world That never wrote to me

I never saw a moor, I never saw the sea; Yet know I how the heather looks, And what a wave must be. I never spoke with God, Nor visited in Heaven; Yet certain am I of the spot, As if a chart were given.

I miss the grasshoppers much, but suppose it is all for the best. I should become too much attached to a trotting world.

THE soul should always stand ajar, That if the heaven inquire, He will not be obliged to wait, Or shy of troubling her. Depart, before the host has slid The bolt upon the door, To seek for the accomplished guest, -- Her visitor no more.