Tower'd cities please us then, And the busy hum of men.

To live a life half dead, a living death.

A poet soaring in the high reason of his fancies, with his garland and singing robes about him.

The sun to me is dark And silent as the moon, When she deserts the night Hid in her vacant interlunar cave.

Beholding the bright countenance of truth in the quiet and still air of delightful studies.

Ink is the blood of the printing-press.

A good book is the precious lifeblood of a master spirit.