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

Between two worlds life hovers like a star, twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge.

We of the craft are all crazy.

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?

Where there is mystery, it is generally suspected there must also be evil.

Father of Light! great God of Heaven! Hear'st thou the accents of despair? Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven? Can vice atone for crimes by prayer.

Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains; They crown'd him long ago On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, With a diadem of snow.