Death is the quiet haven of us all.

Then my heart with pleasure fills And dances with the daffodils.

All men feel a habitual gratitude, and something of an honorable bigotry, for the objects which have long continued to please them.

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?

Small service is true service, while it lasts.

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things: We murder to dissect.