He who feels contempt for any living thing hath faculties that he hath never used, and thought with him is in its infancy.

And mighty poets in their misery dead.

The memory of the just survives in Heaven.

Whether we be young or old,Our destiny, our being's heart and home,Is with infinitude, and only there;With hope it is, hope that can never die,Effort and expectation, and desire,And something evermore about to be.

And when the stream Which overflowed the soul was passed away, A consciousness remained that it had left Deposited upon the silent shore Of memory images and precious thoughts That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed.

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

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.