The man of virtuous soul commands not, nor obeys.

The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame Over his living head like heaven is bent, An early but enduring monument, Came, veiling all the lightnings of his song In sorrow.

Narrow The heart that loves, the brain that contemplates, The life that wears, the spirit that creates One object, and one form, and builds thereby A sepulchre for its eternity.

O, wind, if winter comes, can spring be far behind?

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

I love all waste and solitary places.

Revenge is the naked idol of the worship of a semi-barbarous age.