I think we may safely trust a good deal more than we do.

Color, which is the poet's wealth, is so expensive that most take to mere outline sketches and become men of science.

Direct your eye inward, and you'll find / A thousand regions in your mind / Yet undiscovered. Travel them, and be / Expert in home-cosmography

I also have in mind that seemingly wealthy, but most terribly impoverished class of all, who have accumulated dross, but know not how to use it, or get rid of it, and thus have forged their own golden or silver fetters.

Time is like a handful of sand - the tighter you grasp it, the faster it runs through your fingers.

The scholar is not apt to make his most familiar experience come gracefully to the aid of his expression.

How meanly and grossly do we deal with nature!