My turn of mind is so given to taking things in the absurd point of view, that it breaks out in spite of me every now and then.

It is singular how soon we lose the impression of what ceases to be constantly before us. A year impairs, a luster obliterates. There is little distinct left without an effort of memory, then indeed the lights are rekindled for a moment - but who can be sure that the Imagination is not the torch-bearer?

Prolonged endurance tames the bold.

Who tracks the steps of glory to the grave?

Constancy... that small change of love, which people exact so rigidly, receive in such counterfeit coin, and repay in baser metal.

I love the language, it sounds as if it should be writ on satin with syllables which breathe of the sweet South

Yon Sun that sets upon the sea We follow in his flight; Farewell awhile to him and thee, My native land-Good Night!