Near that a dusty paint-box, some odd hooks, A half-burnt match, an ivory block, three books, Where conic sections, spherics, logarithms, To great Laplace, from Saunderson and Sims, Lie heaped in their harmonious disarray Of figures,-disentangle them who may.

It were as wise to cast a violet into a crucible that you might discover the formal principle of its color and odor, as seek to transfuse from one language into another the creations of a poet. The plant must spring again from its seed, or it will bear no flower -- and this is the burthen of the curse of Babel.

Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

No more let life divide what death can join together.

It is not a merit to tolerate, but rather a crime to be intolerant.

Poetry is the record of the best and happiest moments of the happiest and best minds.

That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the moon.