Sad fancies do we then affect, In luxury of disrespect To our own prodigal excess Of too familiar happiness.

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.

Books are the best type of the influence of the past.

And mighty poets in their misery dead.

How does the Meadow flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free down to its root, and in that freedom bold.

Knowing that Nature never did betray the heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege, through all the years of this our life, to lead from joy to joy.

The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.