The mind of the scholar, if he would leave it large and liberal, should come in contact with other minds.

O little feet! that such long years Must wander on through hopes and fears, Must ache and bleed beneath your load; I, nearer to the wayside inn Where toil shall cease and rest begin, Am weary, thinking of your road!

Whenever nature leaves a hole in a person's mind, she generally plasters it over with a thick coat of self-conceit.

The bravest are the tenderest.

Thinking the deed, and not the creed, Would help us in our utmost need.

Dead he is not, but departed, for the artist never dies.

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