There is an electric fire in human nature tending to purify - so that among these human creatures there is continually some birth of new heroism. The pity is that we must wonder at it, as we should at finding a pearl in rubbish.

Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes.

To Sorrow I bade good-morrow, And thought to leave her far away behind; But cheerly, cheerly, She loves me dearly: She is so constant to me, and so kind.

I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart's affections, and the truth of imagination.

When the melancholy fit shall fall Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, And hides the green hill in an April shroud; Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose.

We read fine things but never feel them to the full until we have gone the same steps as the author.

With a great poet the sense of Beauty overcomes every other consideration, or rather obliterates all consideration.