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.

The sightless Milton, with his hair Around his placid temples curled; And Shakespeare at his side,-a freight, If clay could think and mind were weight, For him who bore the world!

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

Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will; Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still!

Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.

Thou unassuming common-place of Nature, with that homely face.

The mind that is wise mourns less for what age takes away; than what it leaves behind.