Truth, after all, wears a different face to everybody, and it would be too tedious to wait till all were agreed.

Who knows whither the clouds have fled? In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake; And the eyes forget the tears they have shed, The heart forgets its sorrow and ache.

There is no work of genius which has not been the delight of mankind, no word of genius to which the human heart and soul have not sooner or later responded.

[B]ut in literature, it should be remembered, a thing always becomes his at last who says it best, and thus makes it his own.

He mastered whatever was not worth the knowing.

Before Man made us citizens, great Nature made us men.

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