There is no Champollion to decipher the Egypt of every man's and every being's face. Physiognomy, like every other human science,is but a passing fable.

Life’s a voyage that’s homeward bound.

Ah, Bartleby! Ah, humanity!

For, as when the red-cheeked, dancing girls, April and May, trip home to the wintry, misanthropic woods; even the barest, ruggedest, most thunder-cloven old oak will at least send forth some few green sprouts, to welcome such glad-hearted visitants . . .

Many sensible things banished from high life find an asylum among the mob.

At banquets surfeit not, but fill; partake, and retire; and eat not again till you crave.

Of all human events, perhaps, the publication of a first volume of verses is the most insignificant; but though a matter of no moment to the world, it is still of some concern to the author.