The eye is the notebook of the poet.

Hush! Still as death, The tempest holds his breath As from a sudden will; The rain stops short, but from the eaves You see it drop, and hear it from the leaves, All is so bodingly still.

A word once vulgarized can never be rehabilitated.

Nature fits all her children with something to do, he who would write and can't write, can surely review.

One thorn of experience is worth a whole wilderness of warning.

With every step of the recent traveler our inheritance of the wonderful is diminished. Those beautiful pictured notes of the possible are redeemed at a ruinous discount in the hard coin of the actual.

Nature, they say, doth dote, And cannot make a man Save on some worn-out plan, Repeating us by rote.