The Nile, forever new and old, Among the living and the dead, Its mighty, mystic stream has rolled.

There is a beautiful spirit breathing now Its mellowed richness on the clustered trees, And, from a beaker full of richest dyes, Pouring new glory on the autumn woods, And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds. Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird, Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer, Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned, And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved, Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down By the wayside a-weary.

Ah, Nothing is too late, till the tired heart shall cease to palpitate.

All the means of action -- the shapeless masses -- the materials -- lie everywhere about us. What we need is the celestial fire to change the flint into the transparent crystal, bright and clear. That fire is genius.

There is nothing perfectly secure but poverty.

Don't cross the bridge til you come to it.

It is a beautiful trait in the lover's character, that they think no evil of the object loved.