Our own heart, and not other men's opinion, forms our true honor.
It is a gentle and affectionate thought, that in immeasurable height above us, at our first birth, the wreath of love was woven with sparkling stars for flowers.
About, about, in reel and rout the death fires danced at night.
Men, I still think, ought to be weighed not counted.
There is one art of which people should be masters - the art of reflection.
Nature never deserts the wise and pure; no plot so narrow, be but nature there; no waste so vacant, but may well employ each faculty of sense, and keep the heart awake to love and beauty.