When from our better selves we have too long been parted by the hurrying world, and droop. Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, how gracious, how benign is solitude.

For all things are less dreadful than they seem.

Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep/ Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind.

The unconquerable pang of despised love.

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

In modern business it is not the crook who is to be feared most, it is the honest man who doesn't know what he is doing.

Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.