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.

Those who inflict must suffer, for they see The work of their own hearts, and this must be Our chastisement or recompense.

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

Sometimes The Devil is a gentleman.

Reason respects the differences, and imagination the similitudes of things.

a single word even may be a spark of inextinguishable thought

The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing, The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying, And the Year On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead, Is lying. . . .