No more let life divide what death can join together.

Tragedy delights by affording a shadow of the pleasure which exists in pain.

January gray is here, like a sexton by her grave; February bears the bier, march with grief doth howl and rave, and April weeps -- but, O ye hours! Follow with May's fairest flowers.

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

The jealous keys of truth's eternal doors.

Love is free; to promise for ever to love the same woman is not less absurd than to promise to believe the same creed; such a vow in both cases excludes us from all inquiry.

Dust to the dust! but the pure spirit shall flow Back to the burning fountain whence it came, A portion of the Eternal.