There is no real wealth but the labour of man. Were the mountains of gold and the valleys of silver, the world would not be one grain of corn the richer; no one comfort would be added to the human race.

The desire of the moth for the star, Of the night for the morrow, The devotion to something afar From the sphere of our sorrow.

History is a cyclic poem written by time upon the memories of man.

Ah! what a divine religion might be found out if charity were really made the principle of it instead of faith.

The same means that have supported every other popular belief have supported Christianity. War, imprisonment, and falsehood; deeds of unexampled and incomparable atrocity have made it what it is.

Poets are the hierophants of an unapprehended inspiration; the mirrors of the gigantic shadows which futurity casts upon the present; the words which express what they understand not; the trumpets which sing to battle, and feel not what they inspire; the influence which is moved not, but moves. Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world.

I wish no living thing to suffer pain.