The Helicon of too many poets is not a hill crowned with sunshine and visited by the Muses and the Graces, but an old, mouldering house, full of gloom and haunted by ghosts.

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

Something the heart must have to cherish, Must love and joy and sorrow learn; Something with passion clasp, or perish And in itself to ashes burn.

The heart, like the mind, has a memory. And in it are kept the most precious keepsakes.

Go forth to meet the shadowy future without fear and with a manly heart.

Music is the language spoken by angels.

There are favorable hours for reading a book, as for writing it.