But who shall parcel out His intellect by geometric rules, Split like a province into round and square?

I should dread to disfigure the beautiful ideal of the memories of illustrious persons with incongruous features, and to sully the imaginative purity of classical works with gross and trivial recollections.

The child is the father of man.

Stern Winter loves a dirge-like sound.

A mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of Thought, alone.

My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began; So is it now I am a man.

He spake of love, such love as spirits feel In worlds whose course is equable and pure; No fears to beat away, no strife to heal,- The past unsighed for, and the future sure.