Death is the quiet haven of us all.

Every great and original writer, in proportion as he is great and original, must himself create the taste by which he is to be relished.

The moving accident is not my trade; To freeze the blood I have no ready arts: 'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.

Therefore am I still a lover of the meadows and the woods, and mountains; and of all that we behold from this green earth.

Up! up! my friend, and quit your books, Or surely you 'll grow double! Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks! Why all this toil and trouble?

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

Before us lay a painful road, And guidance have I sought in duteous love From Wisdom's heavenly Father. Hence hath flowed Patience, with trust that, whatsoe'er the way Each takes in this high matter, all may move Cheered with the prospect of a brighter day.