I arise from dreams of thee, And a spirit in my feet Has led me- who knows how? To thy chamber-window, Sweet!

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.

War is the statesman's game, the priest's delight, the lawyer's jest, the hired assassin's trade.

Contemporary criticism only represents the amount of ignorance genius has to contend with. . . . Time will reverse the judgement of the vulgar.

If he is infinitely good, what reason should we have to fear him? If he is infinitely wise, what doubts should we have concerning our future? If he knows all, why warn him of our needs and fatigue him with our prayers? If he is everywhere, why erect temples to him? If he is just, why fear that he will punish the creatures that he has filled with weaknesses?

Ah, woe is me! Winter is come and gone. But grief returns with the revolving year.

The advocates of literal interpretation have been the most efficacious enemies of those doctrines whose nature they profess to venerate.