Pictures deface walls more often than they decorate them.

And mighty poets in their misery dead.

The very flowers are sacred to the poor.

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

Those old credulities, to Nature dear, Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock Of history?

But hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity.

Ah, what a warning for a thoughtless man, Could field or grove, could any spot of earth, Show to his eye an image of the pangs Which it hath witnessed,-render back an echo Of the sad steps by which it hath been trod!