Imagining is in itself the very height and life of poetry, which, by a kind of enthusiasm or extraordinary emotion of the soul, makes it seem to us that we behold those things which the poet paints.
Trust reposed in noble natures obliges them the more.
Lucky men are favorites of Heaven.
Happy the man, and happy he alone, he, who can call today his own.
Learn to write well, or not to write at all.
Death in itself is nothing; but we fear to be we know not what, we know not where.