The leaf was darkish, and had prickles on it, But in another country, as he said, Bore a bright golden flow'r, but not in this soil; Unknown, and like esteem'd, and the dull swain Treads on it daily with his clouted shoon.

They who have put out the people's eyes reproach them of their blindness.

Contemplation is wisdom's best nurse.

Truth is compared in Scripture to a streaming fountain; if her waters flow not in perpetual progression, they sicken into a muddy pool of conformity and tradition.

My sentence is for open war.

So shall the world go on, To good malignant, to bad men benign, Under her own weight groaning.

And to the faithful: death, the gate of life.