I live not in myself, but I become Portion of that around me: and to me High mountains are a feeling, but the hum of human cities torture.

The very best of vineyards is the cellar

My hair is grey, but not with years, Nor grew it white In a single night, As men's have grown from sudden fears.

Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast, But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.

Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt In solitude, where we are least alone.

I cannot describe to you the despairing sensation of trying to do something for a man who seems incapable or unwilling to do anything further for himself.

It is useless to tell one not to reason but to believe; you might as well tell a man not to wake but sleep.