I shot an arrow into the air, it fell to earth, I knew not where.

The setting of a great hope is like the setting of the sun. The brightness of our life is gone.

Love makes its record in deeper colors as we grow out of childhood into manhood.

Go forth to meet the shadowy future without fear and with a manly heart.

The Helicon of too many poets is not a hill crowned with sunshine and visited by the Muses and the Graces, but an old, mouldering house, full of gloom and haunted by ghosts.

Every great poem is in itself limited by necessity, but in its suggestions unlimited and infinite.

Time has a doomsday book, upon whose pages he is continually recording illustrious names. But as often as a new name is written there, an old one disappears. Only a few stand in illuminated characters never to be effaced.