The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing, The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying, And the Year On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead, Is lying. . . .

Among true and real friends, all is common; and were ignorance and envy and superstition banished from the world, all mankind would be friend.

If all the thought which had been expended on the construction of engines of agony and death - the modes of aggression and defence, the raising of armies, and the acquirement of those arts of tyranny and falsehood without which mixed multitudes could neither be led nor governed - had been employed to promote the true welfare and extend the real empire of man, how different would have been the present situation of human society!

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

In the infancy of society every author is necessarily a poet

Cold hopes swarm like worms within our living clay.

...Ere midnight’s frown and morning’s smile, ere thou and peace may meet.