Time, like a preacher in the days of the Puritans, turned the hour-glass on his high pulpit, the church belfry.

The true poet is a friendly man. He takes to his arms even cold and inanimate things, and rejoices in his heart.

A thought often makes us hotter than a fire.

Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven, Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.

Today is the blocks with which we build.

Let him not boast who puts his armor on as he who puts it off, the battle done.

Look, then, into thine heart, and write!