In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy tree, Thy branches ne'er remember Their green felicity.
Nothing is finer for the purposes of great productions than a very gradual ripening of the intellectual powers.
Some say the world is a vale of tears, I say it is a place of soul-making.
Death is Life's high meed.
A hope beyond the shadow of a dream.
Land and sea, weakness and decline are great separators, but death is the great divorcer for ever.