The very flowers are sacred to the poor.

There is a luxury in self-dispraise; And inward self-disparagement affords To meditative spleen a grateful feast.

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting. Not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come.

By all means sometimes be alone; salute thyself; see what thy soul doth wear; dare to look in thy chest; and tumble up and down what thou findest there.

Milton, thou should'st be living at this hour.

The eye— it cannot choose but see; we cannot bid the ear be still; our bodies feel, where'er they be, against or with our will.

Nature's old felicities.