In ourselves our safety must be sought. By our own right hand it must be wrought.

Look for the stars, you'll say that there are none; / Look up a second time, and, one by one, / You mark them twinkling out with silvery light, / And wonder how they could elude the sight!

But how can he expect that others should Build for him, sow for him, and at his call Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?

This solitary Tree! a living thing Produced too slowly ever to decay; Of form and aspect too magnificent To be destroyed.

That inward eye/ Which is the bliss of solitude.

I should dread to disfigure the beautiful ideal of the memories of illustrious persons with incongruous features, and to sully the imaginative purity of classical works with gross and trivial recollections.

The silence that is in the starry sky, / The sleep that is among the lonely hills.