And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food.

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard... Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.

Poetry has never brought me in enough money to buy shoestrings.

For I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes the still, sad music of humanity.

Neither evil tongues, rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all the dreary intercourse of daily life, shall ever prevail against us.

What is a Poet? He is a man speaking to men: a man, it is true, endued with more lively sensibility, more enthusiasm and tenderness, who has a greater knowledge of human nature, and a more comprehensive soul, than are supposed to be common among mankind; a man pleased with his own passions and volitions, and who rejoices more than other men in the spirit of life that is in him; delighting to contemplate similar volitions and passions as manifested in the goings-on of the universe, and habitually impelled to create them where he does not find them.

A simple child. That lightly draws its breath. And feels its life in every limb. What should it know of death?