Nothing so difficult as a beginning In poesy, unless perhaps the end.
Men think highly of those who rise rapidly in the world; whereas nothing rises quicker than dust, straw, and feathers.
For through the South the custom still commands The gentleman to kiss the lady's hands.
A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded.
Send me no more reviews of any kind. I will read no more of evil or good in that line. Walter Scott has not read a review of himself for thirteen years .
I have a passion for the name of "Mary," For once it was a magic sound to me, And still it half calls up the realms of fairy, Where I beheld what never was to be.