Have not all past human beings parted, And must not all the present, one day part?

I am surrounded here by parsons and methodists, but as you will see, not infested with the mania.

Parting day Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues With a new colour as it gasps away, The last still loveliest, till-'t is gone, and all is gray.

It has been said that the immortality of the soul is a grand peut-tre -but still it is a grand one. Everybody clings to it -the stupidest, and dullest, and wickedest of human bipeds is still persuaded that he is immortal.

I think the worst woman that ever existed would have made a man of very passable reputation -- they are all better than us and their faults such as they are must originate with ourselves.

There are some feelings time cannot benumb, Nor torture shake.

That music in itself, whose sounds are song, The poetry of speech.