Take the sweet poetry of life away, and what remains behind?

Look at the fate of summer flowers, which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song.

Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow.

Laying out grounds... may be considered as a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting.... it is to assist Nature in moving the affections... the affections of those who have the deepest perception of the beauty of Nature.

Spade! Thou art a tool of honor in my hands. I press thee, through a yielding soil, with pride.

For youthful faults ripe virtues shall atone.

Free as a bird to settle where I will.