The cemetery is an open space among the ruins, covered in winter with violets and daisies. It might make one in love with death, to think that one should be buried in so sweet a place.

Oh that simplicity and innocence its own unvalued work so seldom knows!

Constancy has nothing virtuous in itself, independently of the pleasure it confers, and partakes of the temporizing spirit of vice in proportion as it endures tamely moral defects of magnitude in the object of its indiscreet choice.

Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!

I have drunken deep of joy, And I will taste no other wine tonight.

All high poetry is infinite; it is as the first acorn, which contained all oaks potentially.

The advocates of literal interpretation have been the most efficacious enemies of those doctrines whose nature they profess to venerate.