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.

It is the 1st mild day of March. Each minute sweeter than before... there is a blessing in the air.

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

A cheerful life is what the Muses love. A soaring spirit is their prime delight.

Look for the stars, you'll say that there are none; / Look up a second time, and, one by one, / You mark them twinkling out with silvery light, / And wonder how they could elude the sight!

The unconquerable pang of despised love.

The Poet, gentle creature as he is, Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times; His fits when he is neither sick nor well, Though no distress be near him but his own Unmanageable thoughts.