Come lovely and soothing death, Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving, In the day, in the night, to all, to each, Sooner or later, delicate death.

What do you suppose will satisfy the soul, except to walk free and own no superior?

Stranger, if you passing meet me and desire to speak to me, why should you not speak to me? And why should I not speak to you?

Books are to be called for and supplied on the assumption that the process of reading is not a half-sleep, but in the highest sense an exercise, a gymnastic struggle; that the reader is to do something for himself.

I have sometimes thought that the laws ought not to punish those actions of evil which are committed when the senses are steeped in intoxication.

Oh captain my captain

But the people are ungrammatical, untidy, and their sins gaunt and ill-bred.