Or thou might'st better listen to the wind, Whose language is to thee a barren noise, Though it blows legend-laden through the trees.

Scenery is fine - but human nature is finer.

A man's life of any worth is a continual allegory.

That queen of secrecy, the violet.

When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance.

To stay youthful, stay useful.

I have an habitual feeling of my real life having past, and that I am leading a posthumous existence.