The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!

Nothing ever becomes real till experienced – even a proverb is no proverb until your life has illustrated it

I always made an awkward bow.

I scarcely remember counting upon happiness—I look not for it if it be not in the present hour—nothing startles me beyond the moment. The setting sun will always set me to rights, or if a sparrow come before my Window I take part in its existence and pick about the gravel.

The thought, the deadly thought of solitude.

Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream, And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by? ---"On death

We hate poetry that has a palpable design upon us - and if we do not agree, seems to put its hand in its breeches pocket. Poetry should be great & unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one's soul, and does not startle it or amaze it with itself but with its subject. - How beautiful are the retired flowers! how would they lose their beauty were they to throng into the highway crying out, "admire me I am a violet! dote upon me I am a primrose!"