Miss not the occasion; by the forelock take that subtle power, the never-halting time.
The very flowers are sacred to the poor.
The gods approve The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul.
The first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
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.
Every great and original writer, in proportion as he is great and original, must himself create the taste by which he is to be relished.