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.

In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard seat And birds and flowers once more to greet. . . .

Miss not the occasion; by the forelock take that subtle power, the never-halting time.

I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, The sleepless soul that perished in his pride; Of him who walked in glory and in joy, Following his plough, along the mountain-side. By our own spirits we are deified; We Poets in our youth begin in gladness, But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.

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

The memory of the just survives in Heaven.

In years that bring the philosophic mind.