Death is the quiet haven of us all.

Not in Utopia, -- subterranean fields, --Or some secreted island, Heaven knows whereBut in the very world, which is the worldOf all of us, -- the place where in the endWe find our happiness, or not at all

The first cuckoo's melancholy cry.

She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love.

He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.

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.

As high as we have mounted in delight, In our dejection do we sink as low.