Fortune is the rod of the weak, and the staff of the brave.

In the earliest ages science was poetry, as in the later poetry has become science.

Solitude is as needful to the imagination as society is wholesome for the character.

Ah, in this world, where every guiding thread Ends suddenly in the one sure centre, death, The visionary hand of Might-have-been Alone can fill Desire's cup to the brim!

Fortune is the rod of the weak, and the staff of the brave.

Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how.

It is the privilege of genius that life never grows common place, as it does for the rest of us.