Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each tomorrow Find us farther than today.

Like a French poem is life; being only perfect in structure when with the masculine rhymes mingled the feminine are.

Ye are better than all the ballads That ever were sung or said; For ye are living poems, And all the rest are dead.

It is autumn; not without But within me is the cold. Youth and spring are all about; It is I that have grown old.

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

How beautiful the silent hour, when morning and evening thus sit together, hand in hand, beneath the starless sky of midnight!

An enlightened mind is not hoodwinked; it is not shut up in a gloomy prison till it thinks the walls of its dungeon the limits of the universe, and the reach of its own chain the outer verge of intelligence.