Love betters what is best

One with more of soul in his face than words on his tongue.

That inward eye/ Which is the bliss of solitude.

Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect

Neither evil tongues, rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all the dreary intercourse of daily life, shall ever prevail against us.

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 feather, whence the pen Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, Dropped from an angel's wing.