I wish our clever young poets would remember my homely definitions of prose and poetry; that is, prose = words in their best order; - poetry = the best words in the best order.

And in today already walks tomorrow.

Talk of the devil, and his horns appear.

I have often thought what a melancholy world this would be without children, and what an inhuman world without the aged.

Every crime has, in the moment of its perpetration, Its own avenging angel-dark misgiving, An ominous sinking at the inmost heart.

I feel as if God had, by giving the Sabbath, given fifty-two springs in every year.

We should manage our thoughts as shepherds do their flowers in making a garland: first, select the choicest, and then dispose them in the most proper places, that every one may reflect a part of its color and brightness on the next.