The tears into his eyes were brought, And thanks and praises seemed to run So fast out of his heart, I thought They never would have done. -I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning; Alas! the gratitude of men Hath oftener left me mourning.

That blessed mood in which the burthen of the mystery, in which the heavy and the weary weight of all this unintelligible world is lightened.

Scorn not the sonnet. Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours; with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart.

Poetry is most just to its divine origin, when it administers the comforts and breathes the thoughts of religion.

The budding rose above the rose full blown.

We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.

The best of what we do and are, Just God, forgive!