There is in souls a sympathy with sounds.

O Winter! ruler of the inverted year, . . . I crown thee king of intimate delights, Fireside enjoyments, home-born happiness, And all the comforts that the lowly roof Of undisturbed Retirement, and the hours Of long uninterrupted evening, know.

There is a pleasure in poetic pains / Which only poets know.

Religion! what treasure untold resides in that heavenly word!

If a great man struggling with misfortunes is a noble object, a little man that despises them is no contemptible one.

In a fleshly tomb, I am buried above ground.

The proud are ever most provoked by pride.