Most long lives resemble those threads of gossamer, the nearest approach to nothing unmeaningly prolonged, scarce visible pathways of some worm from his cradle to his grave.

Against the windows the storm comes dashing, Through tattered foliage the hail tears crashing, The blue lightning flashes, The rapid hail clashes... The thunder is rumbling And crashing and crumbling.

Poetry is something to make us wiser and better, by continually revealing those types of beauty and truth, which God has set in all men's souls.

If the devil take a less hateful shape to us than to our fathers, he is as busy with us as with them.

Metaphor is no argument, though it be sometimes the gunpowder to drive one home, and imbed it in the memory.

An appeal to the reason of the people has never been known to fail in the long run.

It is not the insurrections of ignorance that are dangerous, but the revolts of the intelligence.