Our pleasures and our discontents, Are rounds by which we may ascend.

Intelligence and courtesy not always are combined; Often in a wooden house a golden room we find.

Man is unjust, but God is just; and finally justice triumphs.

And as she looked around, she saw how Death the consoler, Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it forever.

It is curious to note the old sea-margins of human thought! Each subsiding century reveals some new mystery; we build where monsters used to hide themselves.

How like they are to human things!

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