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.

Years steal fire from the mind as vigor from the limb; and life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.

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.

The mind can make substance, and people planets of its own with beings brighter than have been, and give a breath to forms which can outlive all flesh.

I shall soon be six-and-twenty. Is there anything in the future that can possibly console us for not being always twenty-five?

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

The simple Wordsworth . . . / Who, both by precept and example, shows / That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose.