She gave me eyes, she gave me ears; And humble cares, and delicate fears; A heart, the fountain of sweet tears; And love and thought and joy.

We murder to dissect.

One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.

Pictures deface walls more often than they decorate them.

Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge; it is the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all Science

Alas! how little can a moment show Of an eye where feeling plays In ten thousand dewy rays: A face o'er which a thousand shadows go!

Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room; And hermits are contented with their cells.