The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.

Books are yours, Within whose silent chambers treasure lies Preserved from age to age; more precious far Than that accumulated store of gold And orient gems, which, for a day of need, The Sultan hides deep in ancestral tombs. These hoards of truth you can unlock at will.

Heaven lies about us in our infancy.

Let the moon shine on the in thy solitary walk; and let the misty mountain-winds be free to blow against thee.

A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light

Poetry is the outcome of emotions recollected in tranquility.

The budding rose above the rose full blown.