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.

The love of learning, the sequestered nooks, And all the sweet serenity of books.

Where'er a noble deed is wrought, Where'er is spoken a noble thought, Our hearts in glad surprise To higher levels rise.

The counterfeit and counterpart of Nature is reproduced in art.

It is foolish to pretend that one is fully recovered from a disappointed passion. Such wounds always leave a scar.

All things are symbols.

In ourselves are triumph and defeat.