It is only the intellect that can be thoroughly and hideously wicked. It can forget everything in the attainment of its ends. The heart recoils; in its retired some drops of childhood's dew still linger, defying manhood's fiery noon.

Time is, after all, the greatest of poets; and the sons of Memory stand a better chance of being the heirs of Fame.

Life may be given in many ways, and loyalty to truth be sealed as bravely in the closet as the field.

A weed is no more than a flower in disguise, Which is seen through at once, if love give a man eyes.

How I do love the earth. I feel it thrill under my feet. I feel somehow as if it were conscious of my love, as if something passed into my dancing blood from it.

Death is delightful. Death is dawn, The waking from a weary night Of fevers unto truth and light.

Now on the hills I hear the thunder mutter... Nearer and nearer rolls the thunder-clap, - You can hear the quick heart of the tempest beat.... Look! look! that livid flash! And instantly follows the rattling thunder, As if some cloud-crag, split asunder, Fell, splintering with a ruinous crash, On the Earth, which crouches in silence under; And now a solid gray wall of rain Shuts off the landscape, mile by mile.