The very flowers are sacred to the poor.
When from our better selves we have too long been parted by the hurrying world, and droop. Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, how gracious, how benign is solitude.
The education of circumstances is superior to that of tuition.
Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray.
A genial hearth, a hospitable board, and a refined rusticity.
Lady of the Mere, Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.