Everything exists, everything is true and the earth is just a bit of dust beneath our feet.

Time can but make her beauty over again.

How can the arts overcome the slow dying of men's hearts that we call progress ?

Bid imagination run / Much on the Great Questioner; / What He can question, what if questioned I / Can with a fitting confidence reply.

Only that which does not teach, which does not cry out, which does not condescend, which does not explain, is irresistible.

When such as I cast out remorse; So great a sweetness flows into the breast; We must laugh and we must sing, We are blest by everything, Everything we look upon is blessed.

Books are but waste paper unless we spend in action the wisdom we get from thought - asleep. When we are weary of the living, we may repair to the dead, who have nothing of peevishness, pride, or design in their conversation.