My soul is sick with every day's report of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled.

A life all turbulence and noise may seem To him that leads it wise and to be praised, But wisdom is a pearl with most success Sought in still waters.

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 in souls a sympathy with sounds: And as the mind is pitch'd the ear is pleased With melting airs, or martial, brisk or grave; Some chord in unison with what we hear Is touch'd within us, and the heart replies.

A self-made man? Yes, and one who worships his creator.

The rich are too indolent, the poor too weak, to bear the insupportable fatigue of thinking.

Thus happiness depends, as nature shows, less on exterior things than most suppose.