Pythagoras, Locke, Socrates - but pages might be filled up, as vainly as before, with the sad usage of all sorts of sages, who in his life-time, each was deemed a bore! The loftiest minds outrun their tardy ages.

And I would hear yet once before I perish The voice which was my music... Speak to me!

This is to be along; this, this is solitude!

Self-love for ever creeps out, like a snake, to sting anything which happens to stumble upon it.

I had a dream, which was not at all a dream.

But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.

For through the South the custom still commands The gentleman to kiss the lady's hands.