Winning isn't everything, but it beats anything in second place.

Poetry is that art which selects and arranges the symbols of thought in such a manner as to excite the imagination the most powerfully and delightfully.

So live, that when thy summons comes to join, The innumerable caravan which moves, To that mysterious realm where each shall take, His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged by his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed, By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch, About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

Yet will that beauteous image make The dreary sea less drear And thy remembered smile will wake The hope that tramples fear

The February sunshine steeps your boughs and tints the buds and swells the leaves within.

Remorse is virtue's root; its fair increase is fruits of innocence and blessedness.

And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief.