Wisdom is oftentimes nearer when we stoop than when we soar.

The common growth of Mother Earth Suffices me,-her tears, her mirth, Her humblest mirth and tears.

The mind that is wise mourns less for what age takes away; than what it leaves behind.

That blessed mood in which the burthen of the mystery, in which the heavy and the weary weight of all this unintelligible world is lightened.

Nature never did betray the heart that loved her.

Poetry is the outcome of emotions recollected in tranquility.

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.