These stars of earth, these golden flowers.

It was Autumn, and incessant Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves, And, like living coals, the apples Burned among the withering leaves.

The human voice is the organ of the soul.

Being all fashioned of the self-same dust, let us be merciful as well as just

An enlightened mind is not hoodwinked; it is not shut up in a gloomy prison till it thinks the walls of its dungeon the limits of the universe, and the reach of its own chain the outer verge of intelligence.

And in the wreck of noble lives Something immortal still survives.

Many have genius, but, wanting art, are forever dumb. The two must go together to form the great poet, painter, or sculptor.