I really cannot know whether I am or am not the Genius you are pleased to call me, but I am very willing to put up with the mistake, if it be one.

The drying up a single tear has more, of honest fame, than shedding seas of gore.

Sleep hath its own world, and the wide realm of wild reality.

What deep wounds ever closed without a scar?

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

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.

I have no consistency, except in politics; and that probably arises from my indifference to the subject altogether.