What is life? Thoughts and feelings arise, with or without our will, and we employ words to express them. We are born, and our birth is unremembered and our infancy remembered but in fragments. We live on, and in living we lose the apprehension of life. How vain is it to think that words can penetrate the mystery of our being. Rightly used they may make evident our ignorance of ourselves, and this is much.

I consider poetry very subordinate to moral and political science.

Cold hopes swarm like worms within our living clay.

We are all Greeks. Our laws, our literature, our religion, our arts, have their root in Greece.

It is easier to suppose that the universe has existed for all eternity than to conceive a being beyond its limits capable of creating it.

The sunlight claps the earth, and the moonbeams kiss the sea: what are all these kissings worth, if thou kiss not me?

A pard-like spirit, beautiful and swift.