Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone.

He ne'er is crowned with immortality Who fears to follow where airy voices lead.

There is a budding morrow in midnight.

O Solitude! If I must with thee dwell, Let it not be among the jumbled heap of murky buildings

A man should have the fine point of his soul taken off to become fit for this world.

I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever dew; And on thy cheek a fading rose Fast withereth too.

The thought, the deadly thought of solitude.