And may we find when ended is the page, Death but a tavern on our pilgrimage.

I hold that when a person dies / His soul returns again to earth; / Arrayed in some new flesh disguise / Another mother gives him birth / With sturdier limbs and brighter brain.

Since the printing press came into being, poetry has ceased to be the delight of the whole community of man; it has become the amusement and delight of the few.

Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir, Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine, With a cargo of ivory, And apes and peacocks, Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.

In this life he laughs longest who laughs last.

Life, a beauty chased by tragic laughter.

Once in a century a man may be ruined or made insufferable by praise. But surely once in a minute something generous dies for want of it.