A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.

My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!

Rulers, who neither see, nor feel, nor know, but leech-like to their fainting country cling, till they drop, blind in blood, without a blow, - a people starved and stabbed in the untilled field.

The thoughts which the word "God" suggests to the human mind are susceptible of as many variations as human minds themselves.

Many a green isle needs must be In the deep wide sea of Misery, Or the mariner, worn and wan, Never thus could voyage on.

Thou shoreless flood, which in thy ebb and flow claspest the limits of mortality.

The cloud shadows of midnight possess their own repose.