A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.
My neighbour, or my servant, or my child, has done me an injury, and it is just that he should suffer an injury in return. Such is the doctrine which Jesus Christ summoned his whole resources of persuasion to oppose.
Tragedy delights by affording a shadow of the pleasure which exists in pain.
No more let life divide what death can join together.
A dream has power to poison sleep.
Poetry strengthens that faculty which is the organ of the moral nature of man, in the same manner as exercise strengthens a limb.