Though a quarrel in the streets is a thing to be hated, the energies displayed in it are fine; the commonest man shows a grace in his quarrel.

Where are the songs of Spring? Aye, where are they? Think not of them; thou has thy music too.

My imagination is a monastery and I am its monk.

You are always new, the last of your kisses was ever the sweetest.

The creature has a purpose, and his eyes are bright with it.

He ne'er is crowned with immortality Who fears to follow where airy voices lead.

My mind has been the most discontented and restless one that ever was put into a body too small for it.