A poet must need be before his own age, to be even with posterity

Large charity doth never soil, but only whitens soft white hands.

The pale and quiet moon Makes her calm forehead bare, And the last fragments of the storm, Like shattered rigging from a fight at sea, Silent and few, are drifting over me.

If we see light at the end of the tunnel, it's the light of the oncoming train.

Not only around our infancy Doth heaven with all its splendors lie; Daily, with souls that cringe and plot, We Sinais climb and know it not.

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

The intellect has only one failing, which, to be sure, is a very considerable one. It has no conscience.