The clouds that gather round the setting sun do take a sober colouring from an eye that hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live, thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, to me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room; And hermits are contented with their cells.

Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.

The budding rose above the rose full blown.

Ten thousand saw I at a glance, tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration.

Love betters what is best