In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy tree, Thy branches ne'er remember Their green felicity.
Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.
Literary men are . . . a perpetual priesthood.
Poetry should surprise by a fine excess and not by singularity, it should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance.
A little noiseless noise among the leaves, Born of the very sigh that silence heaves.
The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!