The poet is blithe and cheery ever, and as well as nature.

As if you could kill time without injuring eternity.

It is not enough that we are truthful; we must cherish and carry out high purposes to be truthful about.

We seem but to linger in manhood to tell the dreams of our childhood, and they vanish out of memory ere we learn the language.

As for the pyramids, there is nothing to wonder at in them so much as the fact that so many men could be found degraded enough to spend their lives constructing a tomb for some ambitious booby, whom it would have been wiser and manlier to have drowned in the Nile, and then given his body to the dogs.

What other words, we may almost ask, are memorable and worthy to be repeated than those which love has inspired? It is wonderful that they were ever uttered. They are few and rare indeed, but, like a strain of music, they are incessantly repeated and modulated by the memory. All other words crumble off with the stucco which overlies the heart. We should not dare to repeat these now aloud. We are not competent to hear them at all times.

If I were confined to a corner of a garret all my days, like a spider, the world would be just as large to me while I had my thoughts about me.