O heart! O heart! if she'd but turn her head You'd know the folly of being comforted.

Come Fairies, take me out of this dull world, for I would ride with you upon the wind and dance upon the mountains like a flame!

All hatred driven hence, The soul recovers radical innocence And learns at last that it is self-delighting, Self-appeasing, self-affrighting, And that its own sweet will is Heaven's will

I went out to the hazelwood because a fire was in my head.

I call on those that call me son, Grandson, or great-grandson, On uncles, aunts, great-uncles or great-aunts, To judge what I have done. Have I, that put it into words, Spoilt what old loins have sent?

No art can conquer the people alone-the people are conquered by an ideal of life upheld by authority.

Education is not the filling of a pail, but the lighting of a fire.