When he spoke, what tender words he used! So softly, that like flakes of feathered snow, They melted as they fell.

Nothing to build, and all things to destroy.

A lazy frost, a numbness of the mind.

Our souls sit close and silently within, And their own web from their own entrails spin; And when eyes meet far off, our sense is such, That, spider-like, we feel the tenderest touch.

We find few historians who have been diligent enough in their search for truth; it is their common method to take on trust what they help distribute to the public; by which means a falsehood once received from a famed writer becomes traditional to posterity.

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.

Errors like straws upon the surface flow, Who would search for pearls to be grateful for often must dive below.