If one who looked from a tower for a new star, watching for years the same part of the sky, suddenly saw it (quite by chance while thinking of other things), and knew it for the star for which he had hoped, how many millions of men would never care?

And little he knew of the things that ink may do, how it can mark a dead man's thought for the wonder of later years, and tell of happening that are gone clean away, and be a voice for us out of the dark of time, and save many a fragile thing from the pounding of heavy ages; or carry to us, over the rolling centuries, even a song from lips long dead on forgotten hills.

Modern poets are bells of lead. They should tinkle melodiously but usually they just klunk.

Come with me, ladies and gentlemen who are in any wise weary of London: come with me: and those that tire at all of the world we know: for we have new worlds here.

How beautiful are dreams! In dreams the dead may live, even the long dead and the very silent.

Bricks without straw are more easily made than imagination without memories.

It is very seldom that the same man knows much of science, and about the things that were known before science came.