The soul of man is immortal and imperishable.
Books are immortal sons deifying their sires.
I really do not know, Socrates, how to express what I mean. For somehow or other our arguments, on whatever ground we rest them, seem to turn round and walk away from us.
It is vain for the sober man to knock at poesy's door.
Not by force shall the children learn, but through play
For it is obvious to everybody, I think, that this study [of astronomy] compels the soul to look upward and leads it away from things here to higher things.