So disasters come not singly; But as if they watched and waited, Scanning one another's motions, When the first descends, the others Follow, follow, gathering flock-wiseRound their victim, sick and wounded, First a shadow, then a sorrow, Till the air is dark with anguish.

Were a star quenched on high,For ages would its light,Still travelling downward from the sky,Shine on our mortal sight. So when a great man dies,For years beyond our ken,The light he leaves behind him liesUpon the paths of men.

It is true, that it is not at all necessary to love many books, in order to love them much.

Love keeps the cold out better than a cloak.

All your strength is in union, all your danger is in discord.

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

And so we plough along, as the fly said to the ox.