No hand can make the clock strike for me the hours that are passed.
Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore, All ashes to the taste.
I suppose we shall soon travel by air-vessels; make air instead of sea voyages; and at length find our way to the moon, in spite of the want of atmosphere.
A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded.
Folly loves the martyrdom of fame.
'Twas strange that one so young should thus concern His brain about the action of the sky; If you think 'twas philosophy that this did, I can't help thinking puberty assisted.